The longing is nostalgic, a dream of the past.

I dream of a past in which art is universal, honest, expressive, philosophical and spiritual, and the artists speak the truth. A past in which morality is possible. A past in which the search for meaning has purpose. A past in which I know who I am, where I come from and where I belong.

I grieve for my dream. I believe in it. Except when I mock and despise it.

I’m too clever: I naturally don’t want the dream to come true. What I want is the state of longing, not the state of achieving the longed for. What I want is always to search, never finding the truth.

Because the uncertainty is not only the place of endless possibility, but also the place of perfect peace, in which every effort is wasted, every decision futile and everything is meaningless joy.

And I believe in uncertainty. Certainty is always dangerous. I have perhaps a didactic responsibility to warn the world of the danger. I am after all an artist and art is important. I believe that.

My belief is scarcely troubled by my deep cynicism.