When I was thirty-eight years old, I was dragged, kicking and screaming into
the Disneyland Theme Park in Anaheim, California to have "fun." Everything
was clean, orderly and happy. I may have vomited.
I prefer Calcutta, India. There, I routinely contract food poisoning or
worse, and vomit. I have been there nine times, usually during the hottest,
wettest, dirtiest part of the South Asian monsoon when the streets fill up
to shin level with sewer and floating debris. There are people everywhere,
and the filth, degradation and poverty is overwhelming to all of one's
senses. I choke on soot, step in feces, eat greasy, starved chicken curry
and stare at endless rows of hovels and shanties.
I find it absolutely beautiful.
It is the future, when the population of all countries starts to burst from
the seams. It is the paradigm of inescapable biological determinism in its
sweet simplicity of truth. It is a boundless bottom dregs of seething
humanity. It is horrifying and nauseating. It makes me happy.
This is also my take on my art: It is absurd. It is irreverent. It is
horrifying. It is funny.