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Because most of my career in the classroom has been at art schools (beginning at Bennington in the 1970s), I am hyper-aware of the often grotesque disconnect between commentary on the arts and the actual practice or production of the arts.

I've done a lot of death cartoons - tombstones, Grim Reaper, illness, obituaries... I'm not great at analyzing things, but my guess is that maybe the only relief from the terror of being alive is jokes.

The greatness of being an artist is the kind of ridiculous guffaw you can have at one's own misery. 'That was miserable! Now how can I write about it?'

To do art, one thing should always remember - subjects of people in misery have deep meanings.

There was a sadness over me, a melancholy. That's always been a part of me - those are some of the things that lead you to the arts.

All sensitive people agree that there is a peculiar emotion provoked by works of art.

If my art has nothing to do with people's pain and sorrow, what is 'art' for?

We should always remember that sensitiveness and emotion constitute the real content of a work of art.

I haven't ever found any great writing on that wonderful and often unappreciated art form, the insult.

When I was growing up, nothing unpleasant was shown in the home. And when I was in art school, the only art that was presented to me was Abstract Expressionism. But I was interested in the grim stuff. It seemed more exciting.