I approach the canvas the way I would a page. I gather crumbs of human speech — spoken, whispered, mumbled, shouted, articulate and senseless — and weave from them something never seen before: a breathing, centaurine body. For me, painting is a universal form of writing — a way of making visual metaphors, at once intelligible and enigmatic.

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The abundance of materials gives me freedom of action: my story can flow in any direction, through any aesthetic mode.

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I work through three devices: chance, palimpsest and eclecticism. Yet my imagery obeys Occam’s razor. If what I mean can be carried more precisely by a simpler means, I take it, inventing nothing unnecessary and refusing to become a hostage to my own principles.

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The  metaphor I make cannot be finished until it meets the viewer’s gaze. And even after that meeting, the story I set out to tell goes on. For once it has been set in motion, an image cannot stop. It is endlessly contemplated, interpreted and reimagined.