Picasso draws his pictures. So does Miró. Miró's sculptures and paintings are the same. Time and time again, I would find all his peasant sculptures in random bars and gradually got to know them. They stand on their own, tucked away in dusty, black corners. A bucket, a rake, a bull's horn, a sieve, old tools in a shop window, untouched for generations. I know his sculptures by heart. Every time I visit his museum in Palma de Mallorca, I draw them. They become more and more fun. I interpret them, tease them, draw them in all sorts of ways – as if they were best friends. And I make liberal use of then in all my paintings.

In 1993, at the food market in Santiago de Compostela, I was drawing a large crab. It had eyes. Suddenly I saw two other eyes looking at me. It was the woman selling the crab. Her profile looked like a Picasso drawing. I discovered the women selling fish in Spanish markets. In their black rubber aprons, ruffled collars and long yellow rubber gloves, holding their knives over the fish. From a distance they are beautiful. Close up they also possess a roughness that I find fascinating. And they don't always want to be sketched.