This is what the best of art does: uncovers an unrecoverable view of the world.

How I adored to draw as a child, a teen; all my life before I began to try and shape a career out of it.

Art, and sadness, which last forever.

Now I wonder if each artwork is in fact utterly inaccessible to everybody but the person to whom it is secretly addressed?

I love that an idea can be so powerful it doesn't matter whether I've seen the artwork for real or not.

You can't dance to paintings. This is something Ben said, during one of our White Cube conversations, back when I was still wrong about him. He said it even though, at the time, he was desperately trying to be a painter. He said it because it was true and not because it was something either of us wanted to hear.

I can't remember the name of the piece, or the artist. Maybe it wasn't even an artwork. Why must I automatically assume that every strange object is a sculpture, that every public display of unorthodox behavior is an act of performance.