I stopped buying art books when I moved to New Orleans. Our
apartment didn’t have central air. Mold and probably insects were consuming my
collection. We, a family of three then four, didn’t have the resources to
sustain this habit nor was I in the same mind-set. As a grad student or a young(ish)
painter living in New York, I had been addicted to Phidon art book porn, the glossy,
sexy, presentations that one could heavy-breathe over in some craigslist dump.
They took these big messy things—paintings—and made them intimate, private,
your connection to them felt real. You too would be a star.