There is a fundamental poverty to look for in painting, in its very substance. A painting that, as it is becoming , leaves behind all will of possession, that capricious will that leads her to want to be the queen of pirouettes and other make-up. I often wonder what would happen if St. Francis entered my studio? What would my paintings look like next to his clothes, for example? How much lie would appear before me, coming from my paintings, how much artifice, how much art?

That others paint as they want, they are creative if they wish, inventive too. I, in this matter, just want to breathe.

a morning in London