I am compelled to paint as I am compelled to shake the dust off my coat. Artistic creativity does not give birth to something new, but rather, discards something old - it is the creative act of abortion. A painting is severed from the artist in an act of self-mutilation; the finished painting is an amputated memory, which makes the act of memorizing bearable. At the moment of creation the artist is animal; there is a violent tearing and bitting as the artist struggles to cut the painting free… alas, in vain. The amputation is never complete; just as the artist pulls away from the painting, the painting folds back into the nerve endings. And then, something new…?
