Remarks on My Sculpture
In 1973, I found myself engaged in a sort of assemblage 
of odd pieces of organic material, connected in a series.
I asked the questions, what is a subject? How does it shine?
What are the isolations around what something is?
The shapes and dimensions of my figures, its volumes
of air and light and dew, had an ambiguous and transient quality.
I used string and wire, the scent of snow and winter dawn,
fanaticism. I hated less than the wholeness of a situation.
Hunger is a conventional metaphor for desire, and here
I use it simply—it is just what the hand does, where the 
eye leads. The absent senses of a word on a starless night,
implied and precluded, mediate the tone of a condition.
Not instances of a geometry or some other larger order;
more or less thinkable, it is paid for by existence.
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