Once, when I was four years old, during the summer, I wondered if I could ski down a hill next to our barn. I fetched my skis from their hook on the barn wall, carried them to the hill, strapped them on, and stood on the grass facing downhill. I didn't move, so I took off the skis and put them back in the barn.

I like to make paintings by trying to ski on grass. More often than not, the method doesn't work. If that were the end of the process, I would throw the painting out. However, it's never the end. I do something else.

With any luck, and by continuing to take actions, the thing that results on the paper or canvas has an impact in terms of line, color and so on, but is also tied back to me and my attempts. These are inextricable. I want the viewer to see and know what I did and in what order.

The longer the process goes on, the more difficult it is to preserve a narrative. That’s my main challenge. All I can hope for is that the actions are visible subliminally. But at a certain point, it becomes more about the picture than about me. Then the temptation is to start picking at it to make it look like something. That’s when I often take a radical action -- some kind of erasure -- that would be an obvious action to the viewer. Still, it's not like I'm starting from the beginning -- because I value the history, the pentimenti, which are like old stories.