I know one thing for sure: Rob Burden was made for me.
It was a sort of rushed, uncool trip to the antique mall, as most of my finds were laughed off as absurd [“But, it’s foul looking, and it has a cig burn in it,” or “You’re not serious,” or “I think I liked the other severed baby head better.”] and there were too many minks with their faces still on and too few decent vinyl records.
At the same time as I was retracing my steps to find the price tag I’d knocked off the Persian rug I was carrying, and/or the stall from which it came–“We’ll probably never know where you found it, but these things happen,”—leaning on crusty sideboards to catch my breath I was laughing so hard at my predicament–Rob was in the car affixing the child-sized gas mask he’d just bought to his huge melon.
Who else.
This purchase is going to live in the bathroom, btw.
C
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