“If I took a candy bar, ripped off the wrapper, ate the candy bar, and pinned the wrapper to the wall, is that art, performance art, both, or neither?”

“I thought I was eating a candy bar, but it turned out to be a yummy burrito. I was both disappointed and appointed at the same time.”

“I’d run 26.2 miles to eat a Marathon candy bar.”

“My first and last name is like a candy bar in your mouth that you can chew on as you say it.”

“Social progress: for the same price as last year, I get a slimmer candy bar, less chips per bag, and I have to walk a little further to work, because to spend the same amount on gas I have to continuously park farther and farther away from the building.”

“What is art? Art is tar, rearranged. Art is tar on canvas or tar on tarp or tar on a naked body. Art is a bird chirping changed into something visual. Art is an image of a thousand beaks breaking into the office of a quack doctor. I know that doctor, and I've personally spoken to ten of those beaks. Art is rhythm, two hands clapping at a urinal while a third shakes off pee to the beat. Good art stays with you your whole life, especially if that good art is a tattoo. Good art is my name, written backwards, inked on your upper lip in a furry font. Art imitates life, just as life imitates Orafoura. Art can be anything from a Manet to a Monet to a painting of money to a missile. Art can save the world, or devastate it. (We could drop another big bomb on Japan, though I'm not advocating dumping Basquiat paintings on Hiroshima). Art rhymes with a bodily function, and everybody should let their creativity rip everywhere from the privacy of their bathrooms to small heated boxes with four of their closest friends. Art is thinking outside that box, and desperately trying to escape.”

“I make art for one person and one person only. And as soon as I find that one person, I sure hope he has a lot of wall space, because he’ll be getting a lot of art from me.”