"Notes, 1985
20 February 1985. Of course I constantly despair at my own incapacity, at the impossibility of ever accomplishing anything, of paiting a valid true pictureor even knowing what such a thing ought to look like. But then I always have the hope that, if I preserve, it might one day happen. And this hope is nurtured every time something appears, a scattered, partial, initial hint of something which reminds me of what I long for, or which conveys a hint of it - although often enough I have been fooled by a momentary glimpse that then vanishes, leaving behind only the usual thing.
I have no motif, only motivation. I believe that motivation is the real thing, the natural thing, and that the motif is old-fashioned, even reactionary (as stupid as the question about the Meaning of Life)

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