The Scenic Ideals That Surround

Questions About Form Seem As Hopelessly Inadequate As Questions About Content.

Artists Themselves Are Not Confined, But Their Output Is.

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.

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.

The Museum Spreads Its Surfaces Everywhere, And Becomes An Untitled Collection Of Generalizations That Mobilize The Eye.