I collect art. Some of that emerges naturally from producing it. As you might suspect I have a fairly good collection of my own work. I also collect the original work of others— living and dead— by trade or purchase. Much of this can be done economically with some creativity. I go through the trouble of doing it because of a need to be close to art and artists I love. (When I say artists I love, it doesn't necessarily mean I want to have lunch with all of them. Some are endeared to me by the expansiveness or clarity of their vision or their devotion or their humanity, though I suspect some might make awkward or even unpleasant companions.) Whether it's an etching by Goya or a drawing by one of my kids, I prefer something as close to the actual process of its making as I can manage. I love to see and handle and live with relics of the creative process I have come to value—those artifacts that still bear the marks of the agony or delighted surprise of their inception. For me, the joy of experiencing these artifacts warrants the trouble and expense of their acquisition.