At nights my room was plunged into a deep, red light - my toys, the furniture, my bed, my hands - everything had the same color and seemed to be made of the same soft material. As though the natural laws were suddenly suspended, all matter seemed to glow from the inside out. The explanation for this red magic was the large illuminated star of the Red Army on the roof of the factory across the street, which poured it’s fire nightly into my room. ...

Nachts war mein Kinderzimmer in ein tiefes rotes Licht getaucht - meine Spielsachen, die Möbel, mein Bett, meine Hände - alles hatte die gleiche Farbe und schien aus demselben weichen Material zu sein. Als wären die Naturgesetze aufgehoben, schien alle Materie von innen heraus zu glühen.
Die Ursache dieser roten Wundernächte war der riesige leuchtende Stern der Roten Armee auf dem Dach der Fabrik gegenüber, der nachts seine Glut in meine Kinderstube goß. ...

Unser meist alkoholisierter Nachbar, der des öfteren als Zigeuner bezeichnet wurde, hatte eine Tochter, die Poldi, welche von unirdischer Schönheit war. Sie hatte ein rundes, zimtfarbenes Gesicht, dunkles schweres Haar das zu Zöpfen geflochten war, schwarze Augen, die so tief und tückisch waren wie das Moor, und einen zu verschlingen drohten, und ein süsses Grinsen, welches mein Knabenherz fast um den Verstand brachte.
Sie war es, die mich eines Tages im Fliederbusch hinter dem Haus in die hohen Künste des Doktorspielens einweihte, was meine Hochachtung vor ihrer medizinischen Fachkenntnis und meine Liebe zu ihr ins Unermessliche steigerte. Leider war unser kindlich-rustikales Gomorrha nur von kurzer Dauer, da meine Eltern unser Treiben entdeckten, und in Panik ausbrachen.
Da ich, ohne es zu wissen, eine Todsünde begangen hatte, wurde ich leider sofort nach Wien geschickt wo ich Seelsorgeunterricht bekam, und nach einer Sondererlaubnis durch den Erzbischof, schon mit 5 Jahren zur Frühkommunion, und damit auch zur Beichte zugelassen wurde, um mein kleines Herz von der Sünde der Unkeuschheit zu befreien. ...

"...When I look at a work of Art I ask myself: does it challenge me, does it touch, move or inspire me? Do I learn something from it, does it startle or amaze me - do I get excited, upset?
That is the test any artwork has to pass: can it create an emotional impact on a human being even when he has no education or any information about art? I’ve always had a problem with art that you can only understand if you have a degree in art history, and I have a problem with theories in general. Most of them are bullshit anyway. Most critics and theorists have little respect for artists, and I think the importance of theory in art is totally overrated. Real art is self-evident. Real art is intense, challenging, enchanting, exciting and unsettling; it has a quality and magic that you cannot explain. Like the Blues, a poem of Rimbaud or Rembrandt's late self-portraits. Art is not logic, and if you really want to experience it, your mind and rational thinking will be of little help. Art is something spiritual that you can only experience with your senses, your heart, your soul. Think of Bob Dylan, Hendrix, Mozart, Howling Wolf, Goya, Bukowski or Robert Crumb - do you need to know the theories that some busybodies might attach to their art in order to experience it?
Marcel Duchamp said: "The work of art is always based on the two poles of the onlooker and the maker, and the spark that comes from the bipolar action gives birth to something - like electricity."
These two poles is all you need. ...

These paintings are about America, I guess from a very European point of view.
They're based on photographs, mainly newspaper photographs, of the Fifties and Sixties from archives in New York and L.A. Most people in these pictures are real people, caught in some long forgotten, petty events.
I rearranged the scenes, introduced new characters, and created new relationships and contexts. And then I painted them in black and blue.
That's how I remember America back then in the early Fifties in Vienna, where I was born. The big war had ended a few years ago, but the city still seemed undecided as to whether this was the end of the world or if life should go on.
It was a strange, sad and surreal world. The streets were empty, the houses dark - many of them in ruins from the bombings.
The few people I saw seemed ugly, clumsy, and depressed.
I never saw anybody laughing and I never heard anybody sing. It was a world without sound and colour. Everything moved in slow motion, like slime. We had no phones, no television, no cars, no music, no pictures, except the paintings of tortured people in the Roman Catholic church which made a deep impression on me, haunting me in the sleepless nights of my childhood limbo.
And then, without any warning, suddenly there was America.
When I saw the first picture of Elvis I was in a state of shock, because I couldn't believe that a human being could be so beautiful.
That was the beginning of the never-ending flood of American images that suddenly came over us and started to penetrate and transform everything. ...

Ich hatte das große Privileg, schon in sehr frühen Jahren mit einem der größten Genies unseres Zeitalters zusammenzutreffen, und zwar 1965 in den dunklen Räumen der sogenannten „Höheren Graphischen Bundes-Lehr- und Versuchsanstalt“, die sich damals in der Westbahnstraße, im siebenten Wiener Gemeindebezirk befand. Es war eine denkwürdige, meine jugendliche Seele zutiefst erschütternde Begegnung, die mein Leben völlig verändern sollte. ...