This is one driving force behind everything. Indeed, I am not a motivated person in many facets of my life, save my work. I understood early that where I lived, what I wore, who I knew, where I was, was irrelevant to my work and the manifestation of my brilliance.

A hard knock to take in a world where doing things one hates is the norm. I am allegedly goal-less. "What are your goals?" I was asked: "To paint brilliantly".

But it's not enough in the eyes of the lonely, those who value their bills, their ridiculous needs and sick relationships with corporations and rules. Don't get me on that tangent.

I have watched people's lives ruined by time-consumption in arenas they hate but do to "survive", and I'm not talking financially.

Granted, it does help I come from a good family. I am afforded "savoir faire", as Virginia Woolf aptly noted the convenience of in 'A Room of One's Own".

That has certainly shed a lot of light on the subject of suffering fools. It is a privilege to have time to think about it. Rich people usually do.

But rich people can also be fruitless. Do you know how many rich assholes I've met who can't concentrate?

The point is, as an artist, I not only cater visually to the A.D.D. viewer, but I'm not afraid to write my own artistic vocabulary, as Picasso did.

Okay, so I'm a rich asshole who is also vainglorious. I am also an asshole who uses his free-time alone, away from people I don't love but "have" to be around, and doesn't do all the dumb shit people think will complete you. I'm not sorry I'm focused and free of masochism. I am not sorry I love what I do. I will never again apologize for indulging my passion, and knowing I can have what I love.

I am the great American painter and I know it.