A vision of one’s own never simply comes falling out of the blue. A vision nestles almost unnoticed as a seed that silently demands attention and care in order to germinate. Thus it happened with me, although I knew from my first brushstroke that perceptible reality would be my model. Halfway through the 70-ies of the former century this was by no means something that went as a matter-of-course, as painting as an art-form was declared more or less deceased, while realistic painting was considered a fossil.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before I began to lose interest in charming landscapes, classical nudes and still lifes with fruit. I began to see the beauty of the ugly and the imperfect. In the city I began seaching for derelict neighbourhoods and building sites.