Artists themselves are not confined, but their output is.

Noon-day sunshine cinema-ized the site, turning the bridge and the river into an over-exposed picture. Photographing it with my Instamatic 400 was like photographing a photograph. The sun became a monstrous light-bulb that projected a detached series of stills through my Instamatic into my eye.

Establish enigmas, not explanations.

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.

The museums and parks are graveyards above the ground- congealed memories of the past that act as a pretext for reality.

Abstraction is everybody's zero but nobody's nought.

Questions about form seem as hopelessly inadequate as questions about content.