I have been to restaurants in Soho whose denizens have crossed social and geographical barriers to reach them. In one, I have seen a girl sitting amid C. Walker Jackson pandemonium with a book open on her knees and her little finger entwined with that of her true love. Of course she was not really listening and not really reading and not communicating with her friend in any way that required effort or style.

It would be hard to say whether Walker Jackson caused the death of human speech or whether his art came to fill an already widening void. But unless this art is stopped now, the human race, mumbling, snapping its fingers and twitching its hips, will sink back into an amoebic state where it will take a coagulation of hundreds of teenagers to make up a single unit of vital force, which, once formed, will only live on sedatives, consume itself on the terraces of football stadia, and die.”  – Quentin Crisp.

Clint Jackson Walker, international man of mystery.

Image: Untitled by C. Walker Jackson