Instead of causing us to remember the past like the old monuments, the new monuments seem to cause us to forget the future
Museums are tombs, and it looks like everything is turning into a museum.
Artists themselves are not confined, but their output is.
One's mind and the earth are in a constant state of erosion, mental rivers wear away abstract banks, brain waves undermine cliffs of thought, ideas decompose into stones of unknowing, and conceptual crystallizations break apart into deposits of gritty reason.
The museums and parks are graveyards above the ground- congealed memories of the past that act as a pretext for reality.
Nature is never finished.
A work of art when placed in a gallery loses its charge, and becomes a portable object or surface disengaged from the outside world.
Visiting a museum is a matter of going from void to void.
Cultural confinement takes place when a curator imposes his own limits on an art exhibition, rather than asking an artist to set his limits.
Nature does not proceed in a straight line, it is rather a sprawling development.
I am for an art that takes into account the direct effect of the elements as they exist from day to day apart from representation.
History is representational, while time is abstract; both of these artifices may be found in museums, where they span everybody's own vacancy
Language should find itself in the physical world, and not end up locked in an idea in somebody's head
When a finished work of 20th century sculpture is placed in an 18th century garden, it is absorbed by the ideal representation of the past, thus reinforcing political and social values that are no longer with us
Abstraction is everybody's zero but nobody's nought.
One day the photograph is going to become even more important than it is now.... But I am not particularly an advocate of the photograph.
The museum spreads its surfaces everywhere, and becomes an untitled collection of generalizations that mobilize the eye.
Parks are idealizations of nature, but nature in fact is not a condition of the ideal.
Questions about form seem as hopelessly inadequate as questions about content.
Painting, sculpture and architecture are finished, but the art habit continues.
Art history is less explosive than the rest of history, so it sinks faster into the pulverized regions of time.
Some artists imagine they've got a hold on this apparatus, which in fact has got a hold of them. As a result, they end up supporting a cultural prison that is out of their control
The slurbs, urban sprawl, and the infinite number, of housing developments of the postwar boom have contributed to the architecture of entropy.
The scenic ideals that surround even our national parks are carriers of a nostalgia for heavenly bliss and eternal calmness.
An emotion is suggested and demolished in one glance by certain words.
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