“A true artist only paints for himself. I have made my art a metabolism, I express myself freely in paint in order to exist. I paint what I want, what I like, what I feel. When I begin to paint I am wrapped in myself, rapt; unaware of chromium cars and decollete debutantes, only aware that each painting for me is either a milestone or a tombstone.”

“I do not unwrap myself when I paint, I unwrap myself when I write. When I press a tube, I coil. Every brushstroke makes me recoil like a snake struck with a stick. I hate the smell of the paint. Painting for me is not beautiful. It is ugly as a reptile. I attack it. It coils and recoils making fascinating patterns."

“For a longtime Tolstoy and others have asked the big question: What is Art? I now know my answer quite simply: Art is what I do”