Look at money: Cash. Investments. Credit. Internet properties. Scratch cards. Then look at hope. Look at desire. We're schizoid: we confuse our desire for beauty with our desire for money.

Artists have become skilled at recontextualizing. When appropriation failed, artists plundered science, technology, film, sociology, and politics. The push, I suspect, has self-preservation and self-loathing at its dualistic core. For preservation, artists, slightly disenfranchised, should plunder finance, economics, paintings about building their wealth, not their transgressional identities. To avoid the fear of disapproval, of fringehood, artists should jump the fence and look at other art. That's what I've tried to do: craft, gimmick, origami, digital art, design, toys. The legacy of minimalism should be pop-up books.

My process of sublimation absorbs these things, and tries to give back. Not as charity, not as genius, but as doorman, letting everyone in behind the velvet ropes.

But the party competes against an endless stream of morphing faces, fixed portraits, much like the line to the check-cashing window, or a row of occupied seats at the blue-collar bar. These last years I've tried to personalize the menacing barriers between finance and crafts, business and homemaking, fighting the urge to reveal to myself and the world that I'm really talking about my parents.