Unfortunately, art in America has become an elitist preserve. This is partly the fault of a critical establishment which abandoned the enduring search for a common language - the language of love and loss and sorrow and remembrance - and began to speak, almost exclusively, in a specialized and opaque language that few can understand. I mean, who dares to define the ironies of postmodernism? Who cares? I know of very few writers, historians, theologians or scientists, who offer the slightest nod to the so-called "art world" - which now defines itself by a handful of art stars (exciting, savvy, marketable) who, unlike their literary counterparts (Dylan, DeLillo), speak primarily to a small New York audience. This audience hungers for an acceptable avant-garde they can take for granted, an "edginess" that shocks for a moment or two. Outside of this extroverted realm in which celebrity has been converted into meaning, in which the quiet, free-standing work of art is given little respect, apostate visual artists find themselves longing for an absent American discourse.