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the world is a series of rooms arranged in concentric circles one moment you are wondering if it will snow the next moment you are swept up by a force greater than yourself like a pilgrim you remove your shoes what i liked were absurd paintings pictures over doorways bright colored prints and silly old songs really i used to believe in every kind of magic the smell of fresh pressed powder or the memory of the smell of fresh pressed powder there’s obviously a visual core to the whole thing but when you take into account what’s going on with time and lines the duration of the thing it changes focus or it takes on another one temporal as well as spatial you know i realize that my work is totally “about” time but i never could face making such an overwhelming decision the architect of my destiny in charge of what i bring this to me or push that away the nostalgic desire to construct a radically simplified world “there” is neither “that” nor “this” burning having been set aflame in the snow the notion of being diminished by not existing the emotion sustained by thought and then visibility the measure of where you start and that you start out with nothing how nothing gets taken away from you barrels of garbage burn inappropriately you can no longer blame other people for things that happened to you
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