A very old and everyday question, yet for me it is always renewed.
I get a mixed feeling of unknown anxiety at the start of each painting due to my ignorance of reality and distance from the truth. The anxiety slowly turns into a peaceful conviction, the certainty of ignorance, and the ephemeral reality of the images of truth. The only real truth is the image which remains, in the passion of imitation, in the heat of representation.
But representing what?
A delusional truth, a dream disguised as real, in all the totality which I know to be life yet always covered in a veil of illusion, a dreamlike reality and a truthful dream.
And the conclusion: the image itself that arises from the war and retreat of reality vs. dream, the image that is the only truth, the only thing, which I know to be true. And as I look on to that which I have chosen in my painterly asceticism out of all the infinite possibilities, eliminating all else… the single image.
This is the only reality which remains, but is it a real image?
I become a prisoner in my continuing struggle with the concept.
My paintings are a result of this struggle, a reality that is subdued and vanquished by dreams, and a dream that is suppressed by reality, a reality that is never realised and a dream that is never seen.
Thirty years of dreaming, the thirtieth year of my dreams.