It used to be that if you stood in front of a painting you didn't understand, you'd have some obligation to guess. Now you don't.

If I go to London, everyone wants to talk about Damien Hirst. I'm just not interested in him. Never have been.

Bad taste is real taste, of course, and good taste is the residue of someone else's privilege.

My mother was an economics professor. I'm proficient in math, and statistics, game theory, symbolic logic and all of that.

I'm retiring because my time is up.

Art editors and critics - people like me - have become a courtier class.

As my friend Jeremy Gilbert-Rolfe has argued persuasively, there is an element of positivity in the visible world, and in color particularly, that totally eludes the historicity of language, with its protocols of absence and polarity. The color red, as an attribute of the world, is always there. It is something other than the absence of yellow and blue--and, thus, when that red becomes less red, it becomes more one or the other. It never exists in a linguistic condition of degradation or excess that must necessarily derive from our expectations.