I was, as I said before, a relatively naive young
man. I'd seen prints a bit, and I think I made my
own first print, a woodcut, after reading Goethe;
and it was a self-portrait in 1949. And it was about
this time that I became aware of prints. It was Jake
Zeitlin—I think he was in the barn by then—had
exhibitions, I think the late forties, early fifties
when he was attempting to sell [Kathe] Kollwitz's
work for prices like fifteen dollars and not being
terribly successful. Also there was an article in
the old Daily News around
'49, by Ken Ross, who was the art critic, later to
become chairman of the Los Angeles Municipal Art
Department, on Lynton Kistler's studio, his
printshop. He was an artisan, and he had one of the
hotshots of Los Angeles art then, Jean Chariot—who
was out of France, out of Mexico, and a few years
later on his way to Hawaii, where I believe he is
now enshrined. Joe Funk was an apprentice there who
later became incidental in setting up the department
at USC, and then [became] one of the first printers
at Tamarind; [he] helped set up Tamarind and the
first offshoot of that, the Kanthos Press, and then
the Joseph Press. And June Wayne also worked with
Kistler, so I would say that Kistler's shop was a
very significant shop for the area. Artists of all
persuasions worked with him—Phil Dike—oh, right now
names escape me, but that's the first. The scene was
rather meager. There wouldn't have been any shop
dealing to my knowledge, and I wouldn't say that I
was terribly knowledgeable at the time. There wasn't
anything in the way of galleries specializing in
prints of quality, at least. And there was then, as
there still is, a confusion between reproductions
and prints. It wasn't until quite a few years later
O.P. Reed broke off from the Landau Gallery, stopped
painting completely, I believe, and opened a print
gallery. Very sweet and knowledgeable man. Zeitlin,
of course, was selling books then, as he is now. He
was a bookseller first, and I think the first thing
he sold other than books I would think would be in
his old place downtown, and I think that would have
been photographs rather than prints. He still has
prints. That would be into the early fifties. I
would say that O.P. didn't open his gallery until
early sixties, or late fifties, just about in there.
Let's see, immediately after the Second World War
there would have been some prints being done.
Clinton Adams worked at Kistler's, and Clinton Adams
was somewhat incidental in the printshop at UCLA,
but it wasn't terribly active. Probably USC's was a
little more active because the people themselves
were setting up the shop, guys like Funk and [Joe]
Zirker and all of them. Jules Heller was the person
that came along and had the title of teacher of the
class, but I think he did much of his learning from
the students. The best thing that probably happened
for printmaking in the area would have been about
1953, I would say, probably fall of '53, when UCLA
hired John Paul Jones, who was out of—sounds like
the breeding of a horse or something—was out of
[Mauricio] Lasansky in Iowa. And he came out to UCLA
doing very hard-edged things, and did quite a bit to
enliven printmaking, had some good students that
went through at the time, James McGarrell and Ray
Brown, and Louis Lunetta. I think it was probably
the first attempt to set up something like a print
department in Southern California. A lot of students
rolled through the place; a lot of students started
doing a creditable job. There were other artists
working around. In prints, of course, there was
Leonard Edmondson, who'd been over at L.A. County
Art Institute, got very interested in etching under
Ernest Freed at the L.A. County Art Institute. And
he went to Pasadena, and in those years he wasn't
exclusively interested in prints, but got very
interested, and I would say that most of his output
now is in prints. Leonard went to Pasadena City
College and later on, in something like the early
sixties, had a department at Pasadena that had John
Opie, who was a very fine printmaker, who went, I
think, to Tulane or Louisiana State University, I
believe it was. Had Shiro Ikegawa and Ben Sakoguchi
and himself, who I would say were four printmakers
of national significance. John Paul brought an
enormous English press. I remember when it arrived;
it was the first really kind of large press in the
area. There wasn't a tremendous amount of interest
in printmaking in the fifties, and I would think
that if the interest in printmaking was established,
it would have been established by two schools. There
would have been UCLA, under John Paul Jones, and
Immaculate Heart, under Sister Mary Corita (I guess
Corita Kent now). But that was purely silk screen,
and they got a tremendous amount of attention. I
think the first significant attention they received
was from John Entenza of Arts and
Architecture (and later of the Graham
Foundation); he was the publisher of Arts and Architecture, gave
them a bit of a spread. I had worked basically on my
own, and then went up to the University of
Washington in 1950, worked under Glen Alps, and was
introduced to lithography, etching, and silk screen,
did a bit in all of them. So what was happening in
the area was a little—I can't tell just what was
happening, because I was in and out of the area in
1950, '51; I was up in the University of Washington,
then down into Mexico, where I worked with Lola
Cueto and did quite a bit of work in etching. I'd
say I basically worked in etching at that period of
time. Then I was off to England and worked again in
relief prints. Then I went back to Mexico, and when
I returned I found that it was very difficult to
get—Lynton was printing a few prints (it was about
1954, I guess), and he was more into a commercial
offset situation, where he actually did commercial
work, calendars, and things like that, and maybe
would do for a few people for friends like—oh, God,
I can't think of his name; he teaches drawing at
Otis [Joseph Mugnaini]. Terrible kind of hacky
stuff, but they were very close friends and he did
quite a bit of work for them, and then he eased out
of it. Takes us up to about into the fifties. In '54
I returned, I guess, by then from England, and
that's when I met John Paul and was invited up to
make prints on the weekends. So I did a few etchings
during this period of time. And then into the
fifties when I started Exodus, and Sister Mary
Corita had a show of their work—I had a show of the
workshop out at UCLA with a lot of those people at
Exodus. So I started trying to promote prints, did a
print exhibition. During this period of time every
two years the Pasadena Art Museum did a national
print exhibition. Prints were always included in
prints and drawing shows; the Los Angeles artists
and vicinity show had a section that was always very
minor, and it was prints and drawings. And prints
were not given much of a section. The San Francisco
Art Museum is annuals—they had one in painting, in
sculpture, and one in prints and drawings, probably
the most significant show. There was a tremendous
amount of national exhibitions coming up, and most
Los Angeles artists entered them and did quite
well—I mean the printmakers. There was quite a few
printmakers in the area, but unless they were
classmates or something, there wasn't any sense of
community, I don't know just when it was that Dick
Swift, as far as I'd heard of, was teaching at
Occidental. He was teaching a print class over
there, and they've maintained a fairly low profile
in their print program (I think in their art program
totally). They did have an exhibition when there was
very little happening in exhibitions, the
exhibitions they did have under Connie Perkins, I
think was her name; they were rather significant to
the L.A. scene because so little was being done in
contemporary work. Dick moved to Long Beach State
and built a very large department, I don't know if
it's been a productive department. I think in the
first year that John Paul was at UCLA and had a
little D-roller press; it was just a half-moon
press, so you'd go a ways through your print, and
then it would release, and then you had to crank on
around until you came—it was basically a press that
was used for printing business cards. And the only
press that they had was a litho press under Clinton
Adams, and that was closed up when John Paul Jones
came to UCLA; that was put away in the closet or a
room because one of the prejudices that Lasansky had
was that he didn't think that lithography had any
validity at all. So John Paul had no experience in
it, so that wasn't even considered being an area
that should have been taught. That takes us, I
guess, through the fifties. Let's see what else
would have happened in the fifties. Not too much.
All of a sudden you started seeing the prints of
other people. The most important event for Los
Angeles probably was, of course, the Tamarind
Lithography Workshop. It brought the most amount of
notice and all. And it certainly brought lithography
into a little bit higher estate. There was, of
course, the printing being done on Long Island, all
the printing being done in France, so one saw the
shows and the works of major artists in prints, but
not in terms of printmaking as I am speaking in
terms of the fact that it was an art where the
artist printed the things. Tamarind brought along
the artisan concept, where there would be a man who
serviced the artist and of course out of Tamarind
came Kanthos, the Joseph Press, Ken Tyler's Gemini,
and Cirrus, and also it promoted the idea that
something like that might be a feasible way. And so
I would say the Triad Press is something which came
out of that. And then there is another, over in
Venice—I can't think of its name; it's initials,
another kind of cooperative press that happens over
there. About 1960 I went out to Cal State Northridge
and was teaching painting and drawing, and they'd
hired Ernest Freed—who was also working, as I said
before, at Otis, and was moonlighting out there, and
did the etching pro-gram. And since he had also been
out of Lasansky, he knew nothing about lithography.
So I took a class to teach a little bit of
lithography, got the lithography program started,
and then Tom S. Fricano came out from Chicago {I
guess he was at Bradley), came out from the Midwest
and took over after I left there. I went to
Chouinard, where I took over the printmaking
department from Dick Ruben, and we probably had the
most extensive lithography program of the schools at
that time. And, because we were better equipped, we
had a couple of presses for litho and were able to
do basically the whole thing, offering the symposium
with Ikegawa and Edmondson and Fricano—and summer
sessions I'd bring in several other
artists—engendered quite a bit of interest. At the
same time I set up the L.A. Printmaking Society I
was serving on a jury with Paul Darrow, and during
this period of time I was exhibiting a lot in juried
exhibitions And I'd run across all these names of
Los Angeles area people, talked to, when we were
jurying, and on a break, I'd talk to him about—you
know, he'd been in a lot of these exhibitions, and
it seemed strange that L.A. artists were exhibiting
prints all over the nation and winning all these
prizes, but there wasn't any kind of showplace or
anything to promote the prints. Ebria Feinblatt had
the print department at L.A. County, in the old
building, but it was pretty much of a second-string
operation, and it didn't have much to do with
contemporary—there was no print council. That only
came about when they moved to the new museum; they
were still in Exposition Park. So when I started the
printmaking society, I was still out at Northridge.
So I wrote a lot of letters and all, and let's see,
I went over to Pasadena Art Museum and went through
all of the people from Los Angeles who had submitted
to the annuals that they had, and took this group of
names, and wrote to all these people saying that I
was trying to find if there was any interest in
starting a printmaking society in the area. And so
then had a meeting, and at the meeting we talked
about it, and everyone seemed to be in favor.
Leonard Edmondson was there, and Shiro Ikegawa, and,
you know, most of the major printmakers, plus a lot
of people I hadn't heard of. And so after we started
working on bylaws and all, we were putting down what
it was that would be required of a person to get
admission, so the better printmakers wanted to make
it very difficult, juried entries and all. I thought
that was completely fair, but I felt that we
couldn't jury out the people who'd already expressed
an interest in it and who attended the five or six
meetings that had been necessary to set up the
place. And actually the weakest members ended up, at
least in my presidency, the most difficult ones to
work with. It wasn't difficult to work with Ynez
Johnston, Leonard Edmondson, and those people; but
some of the others, best left unnamed, were almost—I
mean they had fantastic egos and a very low level of
work. At this time there was an Australian gal in my
class by the name of Molly Brendell who did kind of
charming and naive things. And she met this woman by
the name of Esther Lewis. Esther Lewis's husband was
a lawyer and in charge of his own surplus income,
and they bought a building on Broadway in
speculation that somehow since—I guess it was
Broadway, Spring, and that was the old financial
district, and that it was going to have to move
south, and that this particular building site,
because the building wasn't that much, was going to
have a fantastic value. But in the interim, since
she was a printmaker and attended the meetings, and
even loaned us her house for a couple of the
meetings, she thought it would be nice if we took
and we could have a workshop there or a printshop or
something, so we voted to have a gallery. (June
Wayne was a member of the organization at the time.)
And so we tore out walls, and covered them with
burlap, and did all this work, and set up a really
nice gallery. And we had exhibitions, and we had the
first major juried print show in Los Angeles, which
later became a national exhibition. And we had print
sales, and we had a Christmas show for young
collectors and all. And where people like Ynez and
Leonard had prints selling for twelve and fifteen
dollars, and they were such good buys that I think
it was John Opie and Leonard and Ynez and I decided
that I would take a couple of the walls for each of
them and just cover it with their prints and all. I
was very careful; I only put in one print of my own,
and I saw that every member had one print in the
show. And God, at the next meeting' all these—as I
said, the worst artists and all were just incensed
that these people had gotten all these prints in.
And the reaction was as if I put my own prints up. I
only had put up one of my own, but it was as if
somehow I committed this terrible sin. And I thought
their work themselves was the best defense; some of
the nicest works in—the prices were some of the
lowest prices, and it was an opportunity to do just
what we wanted to, and that was to promote prints.
Not promote personal sales, but to get the notion
over to the public that you could go in and you
could buy original works of art, of quality, by
contemporary artists, and this wasn't a thing much
thought of. I mean, we were very incidental in
pushing the sales of prints. Later, of course,
Comsky and a lot of other people opened up. But we
were nonprofit, and some people did quite well. I
mean, we had several hundred dollars worth of sales
a month, and that startled me. And we had people
come in and we would have—the time Tamarind would be
open—we'd have, oh, Jake Landau, or whoever happened
to be in, Esteban Vicente or whoever was in making
prints over there; we'd have him come down and give
a talk at the society, so we'd have it open. And
then this particular time, 3M—Minnesota Mining [and
Manufacturing]—was thinking of making a press, and
so they put on loan to me a press, to test it and
write some critiques of it and all. So I thought the
logical place to take it would be down to the
printmaking society. So Paul Darrow and I started to
put the thing up there, so that we would have a
workshop and all. I was not terribly interested in
pursuing that part of it. Bob Freimark, who now
teaches at San Jose State, was in the area, and he
handled it, and it was an heroic effort. He boxed
and shipped all of the prints as one unit, because
one of the idiosyncrasies of the thing is if you've
got a print in the show, then the exhibiting
institution would pay for the shipping back, you
see. So if we, as a society, sent sixty prints off
in one box and only fifteen of the prints got in,
all sixty of them would be prepaid returning, see.
Bob got all this information—it was just a fantastic
effort—and sent them off to the shows. And we'd have
these dates. And we had the first buying
cooperative. We bought paper together, and
materials. We also had print cabinets down the room,
just for looking at prints and so everybody had a
biography and a series of prints available, so any
print collector in town could come in, peruse the
prints and see them and make sales. I don't know if
I've mentioned it, but Esther Lewis was a
well-intentioned gal, but she's a real pain in the
ass. I don't, know if she was really talking through
her nose —Paul Darrow knew she was talking through
her hat—but always, if things didn't go well or
something—she was threatening to take the building
away from us, or this or that. She'd call me in the
middle of the night, and she'd gone down to the
building, and someone hadn't flushed the toilet, and
"What are we going to do about this?" And the only
thing I could suggest was that she flush the toilet.
I didn't think she should call up the entire
membership to decide what to do about an unflushed
toilet. Intelligent gal, but somehow I wasn't able
to make the connections sometimes in her speech
patterns. It wasn't that she was into Joycean stream
of consciousness; it's just that—well, I remember
one time she was discussing her daughter and she
said about her daughter, "She has such large
breasts, you wouldn't think she had a brain in her
head." And it was difficult for me to correlate the
two, you know. [laughter] Unless, somehow—well, I
guess there must be some kind of rationale in there,
but it's scientifically unprovable, I would assume.
Then there was a gal I referred to as "Mother
Russia," who had been, I guess, if not a member of
the CP [Communist party] during the twenties and
all, I mean she just had strong indoctrination and
thought that everything that should be done
concerning the human figure should be somehow
endearing and showing the struggle and all. Which
didn't bother me, but the two didn't get along, and
Esther was forever wanting to get her—as a
capitalist—was forever wanting to get "Mother
Russia" thrown out of the organization. And all
these things that were going on. The meetings were
absolute madness, and to get an organization where
we all had to sit in the gallery, and we had to do
all this work and all, that it was some
orchestration to get the business done because many
times the remarks were not germane, but you just
couldn't gavel them out of order; that was just not
understandable to the group. And when we were
building the place, I can remember Leonard
Edmondson—I was trying to hand out the duties, and I
said to Leonard, "Well, what do you do pretty well?"
"Oh," he said, "I'm good with a hammer and saw and
all." So I gave Leonard this kind of hallway that
was a kind of complex sort of. thing, and after he
finished, if it didn't make you seasick to look at
it—. [laughter] So when we came to a real crucial
point, I was always skeptical with them about how
good they were with a hammer and nails. But I think
it was tremendous fun. We had great times. The time
Jake Landau gave his talk to the provincials—I don't
know how anyone living in New Jersey can think of a
person living in Los Angeles as being a provincial,
but Jake was out there telling us about what the
real world was like and all, and so afterwards it
was Tom Fricano, Harold Schwarm, Bob Freimark, Paul
Darrow, and myself, and we went to a bar on the way
that we'd never gone to there before or since,
called the Golden Gopher. And here we were talking
about how we were just kind of fed up with the
Eastern artists referring to themselves in the third
person and all. And there was a woman sitting at
this bar, and she was sitting on two stools, and a
part of her buttocks just kind of went around each
stool, and she was sitting on these two stools. And
then there was a guy we called the "Gray Man" who
was this kind of lean, kind of hard-looking, really
cold eyes, and he was carrying a gun. She was
drinking beer, and he was taking something straight
and very neat, and every time she'd get up to go to
the bathroom, the jukebox would be playing
"Shangri-La," you know. And she'd start walking. And
she was not only immense, but she was tall, you
know, and she'd just kind of walk out, just kind of
put her legs out like a horse, you know, just
putting them out very carefully, just high and out,
just the kind of—. [hums "Shangri-La"; laughter] And
then periodically this black guy would come in and
yell some totally unintelligible thing into the room
and then go back out, from outside. All of this was
going on while we were having this conversation. And
then a person called "Meshuggenah Jack" came over,
see. We thought he was trying to cadge drinks or
something, but he wasn't. He had his own drink,
wasn't doing anything. He was totally
unintelligible, and he'd keep entering the
conversation just absolutely soused. Freimark would
try to get on his good side, and he just couldn't
stand Freimark, somehow. It was just a very, very
bizarre evening. The Million Dollar Theater, I think
it was, which ran nothing but Mexican pictures, was
by the gallery, and there was a Mexican restaurant
that had very, very good food there. All these times
were very, very pleasant times, and I think it made
sort of a unity between the printmakers. There were
a great number of us printmakers in the area; we
didn't know each other. We'd see each other
alphabetically in these catalogs from other
exhibitions, we all lived in Los Angeles, and we
didn't know each other. Shiro, Ben Sakoguchi, and
Leonard Edmondson all became very close friends of
mine. June, I'd known before. And out of that
grouping came the Pioneer Press, with Leonard
Edmondson and Shiro Ikegawa and Gordon Thorpe and
Jerry Avesian and Corwin Clairmont (or Clairmont
Corwin—I call him Corky, so I'm not sure what his
name is). And they did a lot of significant work in
photographic, in four-color process, in etching,
which is broadcast pretty widely. And out of the
experience—well, of course, a lot more experience
than just the Pioneer Press—came the book on etching
that Leonard Edmondson wrote. Talked about O.P. Reed
opening his shop on La Cienega after breaking out of
Landau. Very honest, direct guy. Made trips to
Europe and all to bring back prints from there.
Let's see, Triad Press has been the latest one, that
went out to Riverside. It set up the department out
there in the Riverside hand press. Claremont was
very active under Paul Darrow; he went out there and
set up the printmaking department out at Claremont.
So I would say that the sixties, fifties are with
people working; the fifties and sixties just saw an
absolute explosion of printmaking in the area. I
would say that. I taught up at San Francisco Art
Institute also, but that was basically painting, but
I did do a printmaking class there. But the only
real lithography that was going on before Tamarind
on the West Coast was at the University of
Washington, and not very active at San Francisco Art
Institute. I would say that the most active work was
being done up at the University of Washington, and
then the Chouinard thing opened up lithography, as
far as the schools. And I would say that my working
at Tamarind rekindled my interest in lithography,
because in 19 50, when I'd done those lithographs up
at the University of Washington, the opportunities
were very, very minor to do any more. And when I was
at Long Beach State in '53, I guess it was, '54,
they asked me to set up a department, but at that
period of time in history, I wasn't terribly
interested in teaching, and I didn't get into
teaching until the accident in 1959-60—'60, I guess
it was. Our California art print shows were not
national in the beginning, but they were in all of
California. We had in the beginning, Gerry Nordland,
Nate Oliviera, we had Nordland one year, and then
the next year we had Nate; he was Northern
California, so we had kind of a balance. And Josine
Ianco-Starrels did an exhibition that handled one of
our shows and also did two shows. One was a
traditional show with old prints, and then with a
printmaker recommending a young and up-and-coming
young printmaker. And that was a pretty interesting
show, a very, very good show. The printmaking
society got one of its first moves towards the
big-time sort of thing at Barnsdall Park, when we
got one of our all-California print shows there. But
there was not much respect for prints until the late
fifties, early sixties. [phone rings; tape recorder
turned off] Then I think everybody jumped on the
bandwagon, like there were groups out of
Baltimore—what's the name of that print dealer
[Ferdinand Roten] that moves out of Baltimore and
sells things? He has some plates, and so he does
re-strikes and all, and some of them are pretty bad
quality. Then one of his salesmen [John Wilson]
started the Lakeside Press; then just a lot of
people got into the act, and there were a lot of
people going around selling prints. Sam Francis, of
course, when he moved down, was making prints at the
Joseph Press; and then, of course, one of the big
operations was the Collectors Press up in San
Francisco, which used, I think, first Joe Zirker,
and then [Ernest] De Soto, who were both
Tamarind-trained artisans. I don't think there are
many schools, even junior colleges now, that don't
teach printmaking. Printmaking, I think, is
undergoing a tremendous change right now, some of
the attitudes.; I think there are more attitudes now
that go into the more photographic things.
Rauschenberg has his own press now, and I think that
he brought people out. Ponce de Leon came out.
Leonard Edmondson brought him out from New York. Lee
Chesney, who was a very important printmaker, came
through from Illinois, and took over USC, but really
made no impression because he was an associate dean,
and he really didn't teach printmaking—which was a
shame because it was an opportunity for a lot of
students to come in with a pretty vital guy in terms
of printmaking. Well, [University of California,
Riverside, was] a small school when I went there, a
staff of two in the art department, just starting,
and one of the first things they did was
printmaking, built a new building 40 x 60 feet and
set up quite a few presses. Then Stanislaus State
College [California State College, Stanislaus] in
the [San Joaquin] Valley, there is a poster—it's the
greatest travesty I've ever seen. They have eight
litho presses, eight etching presses—I mean, to
utilize eight etching presses, it takes, I would
say, a minimum of ten minutes to wipe a plate to
print it—ten minutes, the preparation and all, then
it only takes twenty seconds of use of the press. So
do you know how many students eight etching presses
could serve? Tremendous waste. Now, at a litho
press, it takes approximately five minutes to pull a
print, and then you do no less than ten, I would
think. So one person would be at a litho press for
an hour to get an edition. So it's very difficult to
handle lithography; I mean, the students have to
come in day and night to be able to get their
editions off, and you may only allow proofing or
something during class time. The eight litho presses
seems like a reasonable number to have, but the
eight etching presses—obviously whoever set up the
department, it looks like a giant mill or something;
it's really ludicrous. And there they are out in the
middle of God knows where, and they probably don't
have anybody who's very knowledgeable, and they
probably have kids who have a hard time not leaning
too far over the stone because they're still wearing
their cowboy boots or something. I think it's one of
those few schools that has a rodeo as a sport. You
know, you can letter in roping and wrestling and all
that kind of stuff. But it's very strange that you
see a place like that, you see this enormous amount
of expense; I mean, each one of those etching
presses constitutes $4,000. So they have $30,000,
$32,000 dollars of something in etching presses,
plus shipping, plus crating. And it's just a
tremendous thing, and whoever did it didn't know a
damn thing about setting up a program and thought
he'd have a program if he had a lot of presses. And
it's a big thing. I mean, you go to schools, and
your major schools will have several people teaching
printmaking. And before, you were lucky to find
several places that taught printmaking. The problem
is, I think, one of philosophy. And that is the
whole thing, the merit of printmaking, is basically
that you're getting something; you're doing a
multiple, and you're producing something that's
beautiful, and it should be of a low cost. And when
you sell the thing, you should think of what you're
going to get for the edition. So the prints should
be very inexpensive, and they should sell for
twenty-five, thirty, forty dollars. And if you've
got ten of them—$450, you've got twenty of them, you
know, you'd be getting a pretty piece of money for
not a tremendous amount of work. I don't like big
editions simply because I get bored with reproducing
the damn thing. It becomes like a reproduction after
a while. What I find of more interest to me—and I
would have been appalled probably twenty years ago
at the idea—is basically to produce the print as a
format upon which I can work out ideas, so that my
edition might be totally different, that each one in
the edition might end up being a unique print,
although there are other times that they're just
straight drawings or something, straight attitude
that I'll do, and I'll just crank them out. But, as
I go to Cranbrook [Academy of Art], I think that the
notion of an artist this day and age coming in and
getting an MFA in basically printmaking (and that's
what these people do; they go in, and they work with
me, and after two years, they have an MFA), I think
it's very limiting. I'd like to all of a sudden
reexamine the whole idea of printmaking, expand it
and make it broader. All of a sudden, just look at
it a hell of a lot differently: get ourselves a
couple of Xerox machines and, you know, start doing
something. So all we're producing are really not
prints but just art. That's what it's really about.