Back in my misspent youth, I sat in my living room in San Francisco, listening to Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto. “If only I could create visual art that had such exquisite depths, such excruciating beauty,” I earnestly scrawled in my journal on that fateful night. And indeed, not long after that, I produced Viewing Landscaping, an artist’s book about the perils of singing in a crowded elevator in San Francisco’s stuffy financial district. “This is a piece of cake!” I cried out joyously. And it was all downhill from there.

In my work, humor, irony and, of course, words, often share equally with visual elements and, like many book artists, I perhaps owe as much to the fun and perils of politics as, say, to abstract expressionism. “…and the Devil whispered behind the leaves, ‘It’s clever, but is it Art?’ —Kipling

The output of my artistic endeavors often puzzles and even sometimes irritates art pundits because it defies categorization and seems to lack weighty purpose, slithering like a greased pig around such terms as post-structuralist dogma. As for me, I love terms like post-structuralist dogma; of such stuff are a parodist’s dreams made.