Painting is a source of endless pleasure, but also of great anguish.

Painting what I experience, translating what I feel, is like a great liberation. But it is also work, self-examination, consciousness, criticism, struggle.

Painting is the passage from the chaos of the emotions to the order of the possible.

Painting is a language which cannot be replaced by another language. I don't know what to say about what I paint, really.

The craft of painting has virtually disappeared. There is hardly anyone left who really possesses it. For evidence one has only to look at the painters of this century.

The dog tags were a source of anguish for my father. To have the tags missing is to have a piece of the puzzle missing, and my father thought of it like that. It haunted him until his death. The tags being returned in a responsible way gives him some sort of peace.