Art is routed with forgery. Paintings don't possess a tenth of the life of a drop of dew or a peach kernel. I don’t know if I will ever get close to my ambition to overcome this boredom, this repulsion from painting. If I will ever be able to create a single artwork with life in it – this might save my whole worldview. If a set of brush strokes will ever be one millimeter higher than aesthetic catharsis, sterile image, or a linear narrative, then I will know that I can defeat this horror and that I didn't spend my life in the most selfish profession.