People Try Constantly To Use Me And

I Feel Physically Ill If I Don't Make Work, I Don't Create. I Don't Feel Very Good. I Don't Feel Right, I Feel Wrong.

Maybe I Don't Believe Things Myself, As Well. Truth Is Such A Transient Thing...

I Thought It Would Be My One And Only Exhibition So I Decided To Call It My Major Retrospective.

Criticism On My Works Is Like This: You've Worked Hard All Of Your Life, You Went To Oxford, And You've Done This And That, And You're An Art Critic. Your Job Is To Unravel The "secret" Or Whatever, And You Come Across An Entity Like Me. It's Going To Piss You Off. Because There's No Great Secret, What You See Is What You Get, And Anyone Can Understand What I'm Doing. So, It's Almost Like I Make This Critic-person Redundant, Just By My Attitude, And They Resent Me For That.

Art Is Like A Lover Whom You Run Away From But Who Comes Back And Picks You Up.