I am so disenchanted with contemporary art that I am often lost for words when the subject comes up in conversation. The likes of Damien Hurst and Jeff Koons do not even strike me as artists any longer. In my mind, they are but goons. Sadly, I cannot come up with a single name in place of theirs. With one possible exception, that is. I sometimes start talking about an American artist who deals with light and space in a special way, but I am often confounded by my failing memory. I go on and on about his treatment of color, which occasionally baffles the mind, but what is his fucking name? Over the years, I have developed a few tricks to jar my memory, but I cannot get very far without the World Wide Web. After some fiddling with my Residua website, I usually shout the artist’s name for everyone to hear: “James Turrell!” This revelation usually comes up too late, for the discussion has veered to other subjects by then. But why cannot I remember his name? After all, it is only one to keep handy at all times. Whatever the reason, I must keep it in my mind when contemporary art surfaces again: James Turrell, James Turrell, James Turrell…