At six, I was privatized for correcting a photo editor of the New York Post when I noted that he misidentified a Cobra snake. I did not take much to French in school; I was more interested in being a child. I would only draw fighter jets, no doubt to being raised under Reagan. My name was Robby then and at eight I could tell you the difference between a Monet and a Manet, but I could not tell you the role that the French or Russian revolutions played in art until sometime later. At eleven, my peers and I worked with the Metropolitan Opera to write and produce our own opera and I thought that I was Mozart, but I could not really play an instrument. I remember seeing my first Rauschenberg at MoMA. I was an artist then, no different than I am now.

I really can’t defend a stance on a particular medium, although, in the past, I have firmly argued against most. I do, however, believe that art lies in the creator; please take that as you wish. As a guiding tenet, I consider art’s form in its purest sense as only conscribed when necessary and existing in thought alone but do recognize the importance of objecthood.