The Job Of The Artist Is To

Was She Terrifyingly Beautiful? Was She So Ignorant She Didn't Deserve The Truth? Was She Also A Liar And Thus It Was Something They Did Together? I Don't Believe In Psychology; Which Says Everything You Do Is Because Of Yourself. That Is So Untrue. We Are Social Animals, And Everything We Do Is Because Of Other People, Because We Love Them, Or Because We Don't.

The Thing I Am Most Interested In Is Power Relations - It Is So Easy In A Relationship Like That [of An Artist And A Gallery Manager], To Imagine That The Other Person Is Living A Perfect Life.

It Was An Act Of Devotion. A Little Like Writing Or Loving Someone — It Doesn’t Always Feel Worthwhile, But Not Giving Up Somehow Creates Unexpected Meaning Over Time.

I Wondered If I Would Spend The Rest Of My Life Inventing Complicated Ways To Depress Myself.

It Was A Real Whale, A Photograph Of A Real Whale. I Looked Into Its Tiny Wise Eye And Wondered Where That Eye Was Now. Was It Alive And Swimming, Or Had It Died Long Ago, Or Was It Dying Now, Right This Second? When A Whale Dies, It Falls Down Through The Ocean Slowly, Over The Course Of A Day. All The Other Fish See It Fall, Like A Giant Statue, Like A Building, But Slowly, Slowly.