Nature Is Never Finished.

A Work Of Art When Placed In A Gallery Loses Its Charge, And Becomes A Portable Object Or Surface Disengaged From The Outside World.

One's Mind And The Earth Are In A Constant State Of Erosion, Mental Rivers Wear Away Abstract Banks, Brain Waves Undermine Cliffs Of Thought, Ideas Decompose Into Stones Of Unknowing, And Conceptual Crystallizations Break Apart Into Deposits Of Gritty Reason.

Artists Themselves Are Not Confined, But Their Output Is.

Questions About Form Seem As Hopelessly Inadequate As Questions About Content.

Visiting A Museum Is A Matter Of Going From Void To Void.