ART seems more like the huge compost pile in my garden than the sterile nursery, where I actually was born. Many drowned in the juice of their own feelings trying to survive as an artist. Certainly one cannot study art; as well there is no one who understands all this stuff. History is written by its victors just like art-history. And so these strange inconsistencies arise: If one makes an excursion to the moon and chokes on all this ugly moon dust... Fortunately, I have not studied ART the purest form of utter futility. I trust no one since childhood. A freshly-whitened panel seems suspicious to me. If I cannot stop myself and start painting, it becomes more and more difficult. In order not to lose the upper hand, I go back step by step. Sometimes I defiantly refuse painting, maybe for weeks or even for a year, to famish them all and wonder all the time, whether they already have starved to death... When I finally resign and take up a paint-brush on the ground that it will not rot in the wash water: Then suddenly they are back, these unspeakable, black thoughts.