Luckily for everyone, my life, which was diminishing to a point, the point being watching my children and doing laundry and washing the dishes and just eating whatever I could cram into my mouth when dinner came around, has expanded again. I read a book, I went to a Mets game, I watched Blood Diamond and part of an Abbott and Costello and a little bit of the Schama thing on Vincent van Gogh.

I have a question, which is the question I always have, which is What should art be about? My original position on this, which you can think of in many ways, and which I sometimes think of as the Fuck Saul Bellow position, is that art should be about babies. Trying not to have babies, having babies, raising babies. Fuck Saul Bellow because Saul Bellow, great artist that he was, loved to locate the authentic in black dudes on the street and a general concept of toughness and coolness that is in itself completely bogus, but then even more so if you think about him standing on the street outside a house in which there is a wife raising his children.

You could also call it the Elizabeth Murray position. You know, that life is movement and art’s job is to capture movement and by the way, when I said life is movement I meant heartbeats, contractions, walking up stairs. Creation.

Of course I think art is many things but it seems to me that often what it is not is about babies, when really what is more important than how people have and raise their children?

So then I spent a week with my children, really with my children, no babysitting, or not much, the three of us together from the time we got up in the morning until the time they went to bed and my mind narrowed and narrowed and I thought Oh crap, I was wrong. Art can’t possibly be about this.