I write books that challenge the nature of identity. I do that on purpose. I am not my characters. I am my characters. A lot of that can be done by having one’s characters confront art. Do they confront art or are these fictional people who only look. Most novels trade off characters for the viability of a background only struggle will illuminate. Consciousness is, indeed, struggle, an engagement with a failed status quo. The validation just isn’t there. I give it up. I will hand over my characters to my second self who then lets them write the book. I don’t write the writing rules. I don’t follow them either. Art is all around us. But for our boxes and bubbles, we do not know what it is. Perhaps we will find it in a museum. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will find it in a gallery. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will find it on a stage. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will find it in a great old book. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will find art within ourselves. I have never met a homo sapiens who can do that. There is no art within the construction of a single human being. There is no art. How do your characters find art or how do they fail to find anything. Either. Or. Displacement. When I let the characters write the book, I am, in fact, wearing my autistic mask.  Art can speak for itself unless it has a New York agent to cut the movie deal. Pitched Art will then need assistants. Bankers. Stage managers. Cinematographers. Gatekeepers to manage that dance into the dust. There is no such thing as art.