We live in a period of art regression. There are no great masters alive to inspire. There are no mighty monuments being built, no temples for us to stand in awe. It is our generation’s plight to face inward as an assault of information rains down upon our collective conscious, crushing so many of our souls. But as my eyes melt I smile with cold solace, knowing everything will be ok.

I light candles to my holy trinity, Marcel Duchamp, Iggy Pop & William Burroughs. Father, Son, Holy Ghost. I pray to Johnny Rotten (Or Malcolm McClaren, whoever you believe) I pray to Andy Warhol (Or Andy Koffman, whoever you believe) I flog myself in the name of Arturo the Aqua Boy because in the end, nothing is ever enough

I seek the blessings of the reality underneath. Every day is a party with the material at hand. Dancing vagrants, inbred fruit venders, cell phone thespians. These are my favorite things and they are here. Right here. Angry traffic cops, old trannies in the daylight, body fat, incense, horseradish, middle-aged whores. These are my favorite things and they are right here. Nothing is ugly when you only have one life and I ask you who has two? They say everything is fascinating to a child, little animals that have no shame. Why do you? Smell that city heat garbage rot? Taste that ice cream? Those moments are real and meant for you. Hurdy gurdys, sharp cheese, broken hearts, road kill, pigeon shit, dark beer. These are my favorite things and they are right here.

I do not make art for inner peace or for the exploration of self. I create for legacy and forced dialog, for my own narcissistic imperialism. I create to conquer and challenge.

I have chosen the least respected of mediums because with respect comes acceptance. Acceptance means absorption into society. Absorption into society means mediocrity. Mediocrity means failure. I believe we are at a cross roads in art history. There are no possible break throughs left in the old ways. Academic institutions are filled with fear and rules. Galleries are filled with masturbation and boredom. What is life without a challenge?