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“I am trying to put down as directly as I can my sensations,” he says. “I experience what happens, what’s in front of me, and try to make a new, coherent, true form of what I feel. I would regard it as a sort of propaganda or falsity to try to persuade anybody of anything. I just, in a dumb way like a sleepwalker — I’ve been sleepwalking all my life — try to pin down the most pure, utterly new, utterly strange and true image of that sensation. “If I ever achieved it, I would of course stop. I would think, ‘Now I’ve done it.’ But there’s always this idea of an impossible, perfect, fierce new image that I can’t quite reach . . . and so I go on.” Painting is to him a bit like alchemy, he suggests. The base matter of pigment is smeared, swiped and twisted across the canvas, swept on in great slathers, mixed and muddied about, applied in raw dollops, squirted straight from the tube. “I don’t like the paint to be too couth, too conscious, too adept. I have no idea when I start what I will do. I work amid an inchoate mass and hope that something I will recognise as true and coherent will emerge — something that will surprise me, like finding an Easter egg. It seems to me that if something works, it won’t quite look like a picture: it will look like a strange object that conveys a strange sensation.” From thetimes.com/culture/art/art…

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