There are many reasons why I am loath of calling myself a painter, but one of them, perhaps only a minor one, is that I do not really enjoy painting as such. I love my paintings, and I cannot imagine living without them crowding around me all the while, but the very act of painting them is hardly enjoyable. As a matter of fact, it is but a chore. Although every painting brings its own surprises, for I can never be completely sure of how a painting will turn out, the very contact with paint and wooden boards is something entirely different. A moment ago I started a new painting, and I spilled some of the paint on the dining table, where I now do most of my painting. As I was cleaning up the mess, I kept shaking my head. “I am not a painter,” I kept hissing under my breath, “I am not a painter.” If I only could, I would paint entirely differently. “Let there be red over here,” I would say, and there would be red over here. “Let there be black over there,” and there would be black over there. Why would I ever dirty my hands or the dining table with paint and wooden boards? God is my inspiration, it goes without saying.