As an artist she finds Dick's work hopelessly naive, yet she is a lover of certain kinds of bad art, art which offers a transparency into the hopes and desires of the person who made it. Bad art makes the viewer much more active. (Years later Chris would realise that her fondness for bad art is exactly like Jane Eyre's attraction to Rochester, a mean horse-faced junkie: bad characters invite invention.

We suicide ourselves for our own survival. Is there any hope of dipping back into the past and circling round it like you can in art?

Isn't the greatest freedom in the world the freedom to be wrong? What hooks me on our story is our different readings of it. You think it's personal and private; my neurosis... I think our story is performative philosophy.

If art's a seismographic project, when that project meets with failure, failure must become the subject too.

When the form's in place, everything within it can be pure feeling.