No Art Goes Unmediated By Other Art.

Perhaps The Rhinos And She-crocodiles Whose Gyrations Between Mortimer's And East Hampton Gives Us Our Vision Of Social Eminence Today Are Content To Entrust Their Faces To Andy Warhol's Mingily Cosmetic Polaroidising, But One Would Bet They Would Rather Go To Sargent.

When The War (wwi) Finally Ended It Was Necessary For Both Sides To Maintain, Indeed Even To Inflate, The Myth Of Sacrifice So That The Whole Affair Would Not Be Seen For What It Was: A Meaningless Waste Of Millions Of Lives. Logically, If The Flower Of Youth Had Been Cut Down In Flanders, The Survivors Were Not The Flower: The Dead Were Superior To The Traumatized Living. In This Way, The Virtual Destruction Of A Generation Further Increased The Distance Between The Old And The Young, Between The Official And The Unofficial.

In Art There Is No Progress, Only Fluctuations Of Intensity.

The Basic Project Of Art Is Always To Make The World Whole And Comprehensible, To Restore It To Us In All Its Glory And Its Occasional Nastiness, Not Through Argument But Through Feeling, And Then To Close The Gap Between You And Everything That Is Not You, And In This Way Pass From Feeling To Meaning. It's Not Something That Committees Can Do. It's Not A Task Achieved By Groups Or By Movements. It's Done By Individuals, Each Person Mediating In Some Way Between A Sense Of History And An Experience Of The World.

We've Got A Recipe For Disaster. It's Huge -- This Combination Of Body Image Issues And The Drug's Weight Loss Appeal.