Early on, when I started sending short pieces from my Residua pasted onto postcards to friends and acquaintances, most of the recipients were artists. Now, some six years later, most of those who receive my cards are still from the art world, but there are few artists among them. And ever fewer. They are curators and gallerists, editors of art and literary magazines, critics and art historians, and a few collectors. The remaining artists are mainly poets and writers rather than visual artists. The shift is so pronounced that I am beginning to wonder about my claim that my book and its offshoots are best understood as art, including visual art. The artists among my friends often see my work as too corrosive, too transgressive, to warrant the name of art. Indeed, can art turn against itself and still remain art? More to the point, can an artist turn against himself and his fellow artists and still remain an artist? Are these questions or answers?