I realized that were I to paint flowers small, no one would look at them because I was unknown. So I thought I’ll make them big, like the huge buildings going up. People will be startled; they’ll have to look at them – and they did.

I took back a barrel of bones to New York. They were my symbols of the desert, but nothing more. I haven’t seen enough to think of any other symbolism. The skulls were there and I could say something with them.

It was all so far away – there was quiet and an untouched feel to the country and I could work as I pleased.

I’d been taught to paint like other people, and I thought, what’s the use? I couldn’t do any better than they, or even as well. I was just adding to the brushpile. So I quit.

I find that I have painted my life – things happening in my life – without knowing.

Marks on paper are free – free speech – press – pictures all go together I suppose.

Anyone with any degree of mental toughness ought to be able to exist without the things they like most for a few months at least.

It always seems to me that so few people live – they just seem to exist and I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t live always – til we die physically...

I have things in my head that are not like what anyone has taught me – shapes and ideas so near to me – so natural to my way of being and thinking that it hasn’t occurred to me to put them down.

I’m glad I want everything in the world – good and bad – bitter and sweet – I want it all.