Sometimes, a stray connection, an errant misfire in the psyche, causes you to stumble across a half-forgotten experience and in an instant, it transforms itself into an idea. A few days afterwards, you have come up with not just one or two pictures but a series of works, each intricately connected to the other. Within these works is a narrative – abstract, not always coherent – and it's the barb on the hook of what becomes, for a time, an irresistible preoccupation, an obsession. You live within this story and try to interpret it for yourself as you paint. You don't even wonder what anyone else will see in it – you're not even too sure what you see in it yourself. Each line and brush-stroke is a clue to something that remains frustratingly indistinct. With my most recent few works, I know how and where the narrative began but I have no idea where it ends. It could be said that there are various ends, one of them tragic and yet still unresolved. All I can do is keep painting. Despite the intensely sexual subject matter, I am looking not for a climax but for a sense of closure.