âOne thing I love about New York is that itâs constantly reminding you that it doesnât need you. Â Itâs like riding a wild horse. Â I wanted to be an artist, but the only work this city was willing to accept from me was to sit at a table and read tarot cards. Â So I did it for twenty years. Â I have no ability to predict the future. Â I told everyone that beforehand. Thereâs no invisible hand moving the cards. Â Thereâs no spirit whispering secrets in my ear. Â But I do believe in the cards. Â I believe in them like youâd believe in a poem. Â I believe in their aesthetics. Â I worked with French cards. Â Very old cards. Â Each card was beautiful, but when you arranged them on the table, they would speak to each other. Â Theyâd relate to each other. Â They became metaphors. Â Iâd merely ask each person to look at the cards and describe what theyâre seeing. Â Everyone brought their own lives to the table. Â Their own memories. Â Some people left thinking theyâd gotten a prediction. Some left thinking theyâd gotten advice. Â Some left with specific ideas: the title of a song, the conclusion of a novel, I never knew. Â Because everyone brought their own needs to the cards. Â Just as we bring them to every encounter. Â Just as weâd bring them to a poem.â










