I’m not interested in the manic pursuit of (pseudo)novel form. For me it is enough that something—even something that started as an infatuation—turns into a trend to become gross and despicable. The mania for novelty subsumes great deal of what passes for contemporary art into an abject sub-genre of crass consumerism pandering to the vapid appetites of hedge fund managers.

Beauty is not the same thing as eye candy.

For the relatively brief period when abstraction cast a spell, it was because it expressed a desire for transcendence. A desacralized abstraction is of no interest to me. For eye candy, you’re better off going to the mall.

I’m interested in poetic form, form anchored in a symbolic universe. Ideally, it should be form that in some way, perhaps in a very subtle way, engages with traditional forms.

I am drawn to repetition, but repetition can mean different things in different contexts. In Warhol it means banality. The repetition that interests me is the repetition found in rhythm, song, and prayer.

I discovered poetry through the Surrealist poets and their idea of the marvelous. Nowadays I’m more at home reading Cavafy. In any case, the thing that I discovered in poetry is the magic of words. We use words all the time. They are a debased currency. But in poetry (and song) words become mystical incantations. They produce vibrations that transport the soul to heaven.

Art is a step toward ecstasy.