“I’m in my late 40’s, I’ve got nothing to prove, so I’m going to make whatever the fuck I want.” That’s what Randy said while we stood in his very cold, cavernous warehouse space in Berkeley talking about the mutable, roving nature of his art practice. My toes were numb in my boots, and I was gritting my teeth against the chill that seemed to seep into my bones, but those last few... Read more»