Painting is dangerous, very dangerous. 

When you start a new work you have no idea to where you will journey, how long you will spend trapped or what wonders or horrors await. Hours then days, even weeks, can pass in a twinkling, only commemorated by aching limbs and shoulders, by chilled fingers and toes, by hands and clothes bedaubed in layers of paint, by blurred and fragmented reality, having had little food or sleep or peace for ages – and lacking any sense of  direction, indeed any hope of arrival.