I sold a statue of a ghost to the Museum of Modern Art. This is just a pedestal, they wrote me when it arrived. Wait for a foggy day, I wrote back, and invite the weather in for tea. My letter got lost in the mail. I sent myself in a box, but when they opened it, I wasn’t there. I did not wish to be seen. They assumed I died in transit. I never got paid by the museum, but they put up the pedestal anyway, labeling it a posthumous self-portrait. Whenever someone stops in front of my work, I whisper from the shadows, That isn’t what I meant at all, not at all. No one has understood me yet. But many look over their shoulders, eager for meaning even if it isn’t there.