Artist

An emotion is suggested and demolished in one glance by certain words.

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

A work of art when placed in a gallery loses its charge, and becomes a portable object or surface disengaged from the outside world.

Language should be an ever developing procedure and not an isolated occurrence.

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

Mistakes and dead-ends often mean more to these artists than any proven problem.

Artists themselves are not confined, but their output is.

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

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

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.

The scenic ideals that surround even our national parks are carriers of a nostalgia for heavenly bliss and eternal calmness.

Language thus becomes monumental because of the mutations of advertising.

History is representational, while time is abstract; both of these artifices may be found in museums, where they span everybody's own vacancy.