“There is nothing that special to see when looking at me.”

Art is a line around your thoughts.

Even when I have to write a simple letter I’m scared stiff as if faced with looming seasickness.

There is no self-portrait of me.

There is nothing that special to see when looking at me. I’m a painter who paints day in day out, from morning till evening – figure pictures and landscapes, more rarely portraits.

After tea it’s back to painting – a large poplar at dusk with a gathering storm. From time to time instead of this evening painting session I go bowling in one of the neighbouring villages, but not very often.

True relaxation, which would do me the world of good, does not exist for me.

There is always hope, as long as the canvases are empty.

Although even when I am being idle I have plenty of food for thought both early and late – thoughts both about and not about art.

On my first days here I did not start work immediately but, as planned, I took it easy for a few days – flicked through books, studied Japanese art a little.

I can paint and draw. I believe this myself and a few other people say that they believe this too. But I’m not certain of whether it’s true.

Whoever wants to know something about me – as an artist which alone is significant – they should look attentively at my pictures and there seek to recognise what I am and what I want.

Sometimes I miss out the morning’s painting session and instead study my Japanese books in the open.

I have so much respect for my opponents; many of them watched the races as little children and were supporting me!

Come to my house and you’ll see if I’m gay. And bring your sister.

All my life, men have told me I wasn’t pretty enough – even the men I was dating. And I’d be like, ‘Well, why are you with me, then?’ It’s always been men putting me down just like my dad. To this day when someone says I’m cute, I can’t see it. I don’t see it no matter what anybody says.

Clairvoyants can see flashes of colour, constantly changing, in the aura that surrounds every person: each thought, each feeling, thus translating itself in the astral world, visible to the astral sight.

It bring a tear to my eye to see native New York people give me my props because New York is stubborn and arrogant.

Unable to understand how or why the person we see behaves as he does, we attribute his behavior to a person we cannot see, whose behavior we cannot explain either but about whom we are not inclined to ask questions.

Everything comes down to how you perceive the world around you and how you choose to see things.

See, I don’t want brothers shooting. I want them talking.