I have begun writing before the California Figurative exhibition  
opens at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco next  
week. The newspaper called me to ask what I thought of
the show. I told them, but I doubt if they will print it.  

  
I am writing my autobiography I also told them. And so I am,  
but like cake wolfed after too many drinks, it is vomited out in  
unrecognizable chunks. Soit. I will do it anyways. Let someone else make
something out of the pieces when I am dead.  
  
     

 
 

 


                       

                                               
   

         


 

            
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