Artists are expected to fit into fraudulent categories.

Nature does not proceed in a straight line, it is rather a sprawling development.

Visiting a museum is a matter of going from void to void.

Nature is never finished.

A vacant white room with lights is still a submission to the neutral. Works of art seen in such spaces seem to be going through a kind of esthetic convalescence.

A camera is wild in just about anybody's hands, therefore one must set limits. But cameras have a life of their own. Cameras care nothing about cults or isms. They are indifferent mechanical eyes, ready to devour anything in sight. They are lenses of the unlimited reproduction.

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