To say that language in art and letters have been stunted is very true. It’s not that there’s a lack of eyes to look at pictures, and not that there’s a surfeit of people talking about them, or people reading books, but there is now a self-consciousness which demands improvement on a weekly basis.

When in conversation, one notes that one must say not simply what one feels, but what one considers to be brighter than what has come before. It’s a constant fight out there. A competition is raging, and it’s adjudicated by people who think the brain is for the rational snapping of the jaw, and that ideas are for dissection.  The fact is that speech is the ideal that shows us what we are.

All of this, I became skilful at avoiding, but only through the indulgent twisting up of words — I called it my writing! Liska was naturally never a part of it. She couldn’t have taken a part if she had wanted to, she could never produce any of that verbal twat that makes our civilisation as arid as it is.

Liska’s work defied criticism because she defied viewers. Artistically, she and I are the end of the process. We are both speculators, and we both lack ideas. In our work, there are no concepts, just as there is nothing high and nothing guarded.  She paints and I write, and these are the ends in themselves.  It is as if we couldn’t be bothered with anything, else, any of the shit and smack of the media, of sales, of having websites, twitter feeds, anything that made us a part of that grand, public popularity contest ....