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them...I painted something in most of them...but along the way I got fascinated by boats in these countries...

We're gonna bring boats from all these countries of the world... like Thailand. Venice they have these fabulous row a gondola with one oar...I tried it...I got it to go in a complete circle...couldn't do a thing with it. In Thailand, you kick it a certain way to make it right. Down the Nile they got a kind of boat that would look right on the Scioto...there's the Sampan...the Junks in Hong Kong.

Boats from every part of the world up along the walks you have the great art pieces of the world at least good copies...and those steps going down into the pure, clean water of the Scioto... hope they got this sewer system working in time.

All this will then inspire us to create our own statues and our own kind of culture...this is this is the way culture is something for this Midwestern city that will be for all...hell, all they got down there now is a bunch of flags...who the hell gives a damn about the flag of Idaho...a flag to a potato.

The cost will be almost nothing once we get it could be like an outdoor Gallery of Fine Arts...just fine art without a roof...this country could do it ...just for the cost of one rocket...we got enough money in this country to do my Scioto and the rocket too... if we decide to.

Well, let's see. Here are some dark spots in my life. Very dark. I say what I think. When a professor in a University draws two black lines on a canvas and throws a daub of red on it and calls it some kind of expression, I think he is a phony.

Yeah...and some of them I think are crazy as hell. But the real nuts are these people who buy this kind of stuff. They think they're buying culture. Makes me gawddamn mad... we spend, billions of dollars building fine museums in this country and then what the hell do we do?

The stuff we put in 'em looks like something out of the Dean and Barry store.

(Quietly, almost like an aside thought.) Maybe that's not such a bad idea...when I was a kid, one of the prettiest things I remember growing up was a paint chip card...Pittsburgh Paints...beautiful. Then they didn't have all this fine printing you see...this rotograveur kind of stuff. Then they had to make the color chips from the real paint. I use to save these and when I was in about the fifth grade, when other kids collected marbles or car pictures or bird wings, I had the biggest collection of colored paint chips in town.

Course I was the only one in the market so I didn't have too much competition.

But you think back...those little paint chips were really a part of culture...I always thought the Coca-Cola bottle was a woman. No one else I know looks at a bottle and thinks anything...remember the old Hudson automobile... one of the best cars this country ever saw. Never made it though... mostly because they didn't advertise it right. The people who made Hudson talked about how fine the engine was and how good the seats were underneath and how fine the springs were... the things you couldn't see.

What people really wanted was a shiny paint job that would last until the first rain. Or they wanted four holes in the side of the hood...holes that didn't do a damn thing for the car... that was the Buick. Hell, they could have put eight Chinese coolies under that hood and four holes on the outside and sold it in this country.

Culture in this country is just like the Buick. This fag in New York that paints soup labels...a hundred dollars... gawddamn, I'll bet if he punches four holes in the things he could get four hundred dollars.

When I visited the National Gallery in Washington...I walked up to this gentleman and said,"I'd like to see the director of this institution"...I had just looked over Dali's Last Supper ... the one with the hole through the stomach of Christ...He said he's in the office there.

I went in...said (voice raises) Sir, you have some rules in this Gallery that a man must be dead thirty years before he can get a painting in here. How did Dali git in? Well, he says, that I can explain... that I can explain. This is Mr. Kress' we had to accept what he

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