Scandal Is Only Human.

All Great Contemporary Artists, Schooled Or Not, Are Essentially Self-taught And Are De-skilling Like Crazy. I Don't Look For Skill In Art... Skill Has Nothing To Do With Technical Proficiency... I'm Interested In People Who Rethink Skill, Who Redefine Or Reimagine It: An Engineer, Say, Who Builds Rockets From Rocks.

My Nominee For Best Picture Of The Year - Maybe The Best Picture Ever, Because It's Essentially Made Up Of And Is An Ecstatic Love Letter To All Other Movies - Is Christian Marclay's Endlessly Enticing Must-see Masterpiece 'the Clock.'

When People In Stadiums Do The Wave, It's The Group-mind Collective Organism Spontaneously Organizing Itself To Express An Emotion, Pass Time, And Reflect The Joy Of Seeing The Rhythms Of Many As One, A Visual Rhyming Or Music In Which Everyone Senses Where The Motion Is Going.

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.

There's One Baldessari Work I Genuinely Love And Would Like To Own, Maybe Because Of My Midwestern Roots And Love Of Driving Alone. 'the Backs Of All The Trucks Passed While Driving From Los Angeles To Santa Barbara, California, Sunday, 20 January 1963' Consists Of A Grid Of 32 Small Color Photographs Depicting Just What The Title Says.