If asked to describe my efforts, one might begin by calling them manic. But, in terms of art, such a label is ambiguous. Mania can be the ferment of genius left to languish by a public that cannot or will not understand an artist's intentions. Or it can be the product of an individual, with little to say, who takes an audience's passing attention to his protestations as a testament to the viability of his message and its delivery. Think of the garrulous child who, having earned faint praise from parents for some clumsy living room theatrics, insists on repeating his performance twenty-five times.

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