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.

Museums are tombs, and it looks like everything is turning into a museum.

Objects in a park suggest static repose rather than any ongoing dialectic. Parks are finished landscapes for finished art .

Art history is less explosive than the rest of history, so it sinks faster into the pulverized regions of time.

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.

Painting, sculpture and architecture are finished, but the art habit continues.

Artists are expected to fit into fraudulent categories.