I despise my own past and that of others. I despise resignation, patience, professional heroism, and all the obligatory sentiments. I also despise the decorative arts, folklore, advertising, radio announcers' voices, aerodynamics, the Boy Scouts, the smell of naphtha, the news, and drunks.
I like subversive humor, freckles, women's knees and long hair, the
laughter of playing children, and a girl running down the street.
I hope for vibrant love, the impossible, the chimerical.
I dread knowing precisely my own limitations.
Painting bores me like everything else. Unfortunately, painting is one of the activities--it is bound up in the series of activities--that seems to change almost nothing in life, the same habits are always recurring.
I am unaware of the real reason why I paint, just as I am unaware of the reason for living and dying.
