A Great Artist Has A Unique Vision...obsession.

I Have Never Really Cooked, Don't Know How To Use My Dishwasher, And Subsist Mainly On Prepared Deli Takeout. I Don't Even Eat In Restaurants Much.

As I Went Through 'this Progress,' One Of Two Performance Pieces By Tino Sehgal That Transform Frank Lloyd Wright's Emptied-out Spiral Into A Dreamy Socratic-purgatorial Journey, The Museum Literally Fell Away. I Was Suspended In Some Weird Nonspace.

Few Contemporary Artists Mined The Space Between The Ordinary And The Strange Better Than Orozco Did.

In The Seventies, A Group Of American Artists Seized The Means Not Of Production But Of Reproduction. They Tore Apart Visual Culture At A Time Of No Money, No Market, And No One Paying Attention Except Other Artists. Vietnam And Watergate Had Happened; Everything In America Was Being Questioned.

As I Made My Way Through 'on Line,' The Austere, Stridently Dogmatic, Sometimes Revelatory Exhibition 'about Line' At Moma, I Found Myself Thinking, 'someone Please Wake Me When The Seventies Are Over!' In The Empire Of Curators, The Sun Never Sets On The Seventies. It Is The Undead Decade.