Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.
Nagasaki destroyed by the magic of science is the nearest man has yet approached to the realization of dreams that even during the safe immobility of sleep are accustomed to develop into nightmares of anxiety.
Perhaps the future belongs to magic, and it's we women who control magic.
Yet she felt an impostor, and already the mask had begun to bite into her face.
Elaborate burial customs are a sure sign of decadence.
Pop artists deal with the lowly trivia of possessions and equipment that the present generation is lugging along with it on its safari into the future.