➜ I try not to take myself too seriously, and with my desire to insert a kind of makeshift tableau of an artist’s workspace i felt needed a longwinded title that was a bit of a good poetic pisstake. That piece in some ways is meant to indulge and acknowledge the inherent narcissism of making art about production, about the hand of the modern-day artist. It’s a very expressive and sloppy rendering of these sort of fetishized objets d’art in the studio, like when they scraped Bacon’s studio down to the lathe and plaster to preserve the walls.

I felt I had been agreeably run over, and I was agreeably getting twisted up underneath whatever vehicle it was; it was heavy and moving fast and had a two-range transmission like a rock truck. Trash was raining off the truck and I did not care. Let it rain. Let there be trash. Intelligent, surviving animals make durable nests of trash. Trash is a precious commodity in our time. He who cannot look trash in the eye is lost. In a raiment of minor garbage walks the necessary hero today.