Another recently discovered excerpt of the legendary artist, Skeet Giddens, being interviewed by Arturo Bandini. The date is uncertain, but most likely in the late Spring of 2014:

“So this new series, Suicide Bombings...” 
“(laughter, coughing)... I know, I know. All I can say is, well, you know, I had to paint ‘em. I mean, what are you gonna do? I didn’t ask to be here.” 
“Do you like them?” 
“Do I like them? What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean, well, they’re pretty gruesome. Don’t you get tired of looking at them?”
“Yeah, sometimes I get tired of them. Sometimes I get tired of eating oatmeal for breakfast. Sometimes I get tired of putting my shoes on, I get tired of wiping my ass. I mean, come on... You know, it’s like beauty, especially the beauty of a woman. It’s a tough fix, you know, to be aware. When you realize for the most part it’s just nature having its way with you (coughing)... But even then, that realization does absolutely nothing for us. Anyway, whatever, that’s, you know, that’s a whole nother thing... Look, man, I paint only for myself. That’s it. And the paintings, they arrive to tell me something. These, they’re still telling me. It takes time. What they have to say takes time. Maybe they will never say it all? Maybe I won’t be able to hear it? Who knows. I always seem to know when it’s time, when it’s time to move on.”
“Have you sold any?”
“I don’t sell paintings anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I would give one away if the right person came along but, no, I no longer sell ‘em. They’ll be left for my niece and nephew out in Colorado.”
“Can you tell me about this one.”
“Well, all of these came to me completely intact. They arrived in my mind just as they are, immaculate, every detail. I did nothing. I can paint. I’m a gifted painter so it’s easy. But what’s that? Who cares, you know. What’s skill? What’s talent? How could anything matter any less? I’ve always thought this. Always. Even in art school. I don’t even enjoy it anymore. I’d rather hire someone else to paint. But you know, this one, this black woman tangled up with the other on the bus. She’s the most prominent. And if you look at her face, if you can piece it back together, put the brains back, fix the skull, zip it all back up. I mean, you sort of get to know her, do you not? You start to imagine what she was thinking before the blast. Look at her fingernails. I mean, that’s the thing, that’s what’s fascinating to me. I mean, how long does it take to get your fingernails painted like that? It’s a common thing with women. But what’s the reason for this? I mean, this poor woman is probably in her late forties, early fifties, and she’s on her way to work. It’s snowing. She has to take the bus. I mean, her life can’t be easy. But she gets her fingernails painted. This brings her happiness. This matters. And then you think, when did she get them done? Did she just get them done before she went to work? If so, she’s excited to show them off. This would mean she was most likely happy, she was pleased with herself as she stepped off the bus. Does this not matter? Does this not change something about her death? Does it not make it completely ridiculous? Oh, and if you look closely, you can just see in her purse, just a very small portion of a white wrapper, a Balance Bar, Yogurt Peanut flavor. So this large woman you see was on a diet. She was trying to improve herself. She was in a positive state, empowered. She was envisioning a new chapter in her future. So in that case, she was probably less likely to be preoccupied with the dark realities of the world. So you know, most likely, she had never imagined herself being blown up on a bus by a suicide bomber. While I, on the other hand, have imagined this happening to myself probably a dozen or so times a day for the last twenty or so years. You see it’s all sort of in line with those paintings I did of the towers, the ones I got in so much shit over. I still find it funny. The reaction. Even other artists shunned me. Friends and family shunned me. People are animals.”
“Well, you had to have known they weren’t going to go over too well (laughter). That showing was arguably the most controversial event in the history of modern art... How many were destroyed in the riot?”
“We were only able to salvage two. My friend, Steve Walls, grabbed them and made it to a cab.”
“Steve Walls, I think I met him once. He was a great painter! What ever happened to him?”
“Who knows? I haven't heard from him in years. Last I heard he moved his family down to Mexico. You know, I let him keep those paintings. I only asked that he not sell them. To my knowledge he never did. Yeah, he's a good man, a good friend."...