I will tell you now, I do not always know what I am after in painting. Sometimes I know, and in those times that I know, it is like floating happily on a lively lake, and I am tossed here and there but always on a buoyant body of one thing, that one thing is knowing. But I do not always know, and when I cease to know—and that is how it is, it is a cessation of knowing—then it is like sinking. I do not think it is like sinking, I think it is sinking. Now I am sinking, I am having the feeling of sinking, of breathlessness and fear and darkness. I believe I have come to the end of my squares, and I do not know why I paint, and I do not know that I should paint, I do not know that I have any business painting. How is it that I call myself a painter when I do not know what I am after in painting, there is no raison beyond flinging out my hand in order to transfer the paint from the pot to the canvas? It is even in question how to do that!