You wouldn’t have thought it possible, meeting me in my high days in Addis Ababa, that a few years later the art world would forget me entirely except for the occasional desperate critic scraping together some obscure thesis. I had acquired or unleashed a full measure of talent and I have to acknowledge it went to my head at least as much as it seemed to affect the thinking of those around me. My self-image decreed that I hold in my desire to paint for weeks and then stab and slash the canvas with every evidence of fury. It wasn’t entirely natural to me, so often I had to engage in furtive night-time creation when the mood took me, and hide the consequences away until my next scheduled ejaculation. This was all needless nonsense, but it satisfied my sense of who I wished to be.