I have been asked under what circumstances I come up with an idea. The process is roughly as I describe it below:

My pulse slows down until I can no longer locate it. My body gives me the sensation of slowly dissolving until it becomes imperceptible. The light softly loses intensity and the exterior reality acquires a warmer tone, a subtle veil as if produced by the use of orange sunglasses. The ground seems to lose its horizontality, going to an inclined plane of approximately 8 degrees.

From this moment on, I feel as if I were on an air mattress, not touching the ground; a minimal separation. Total relaxation takes place, my inner space contains nothing known or remembered. After an immeasurable lapse of time, the place where one assumes the sky becomes tense. The air vibrates with strange sounds, though not without melody.

The area above me begins to grow darker and darker, isolated from the light around me. The darkness intensifies and defines a crack-like line that takes on an unbearable luminosity while the sounds increase in volume, acquiring fanfare-like qualities. Trees that I do not see behind me tremble slightly and murmur. The crack opens and streams of immaterial configurations flow and spill out in a glorious dance flooding everything with rays of pink and turquoise light.

A form separates from the group, I can't see it, but suddenly I feel a very slight pressure on my left shoulder and a perfumed aura. My earlobe moves thanks to a small breeze. I have the feeling that something is forming, something that connects my navel with my brain.

Suddenly I can read an idea inside me. I am myself again. Reality regains its shape as if nothing had happened.

No one will believe me that these are the circumstances under which ideas occur to me. It would seem incredible that all this happens every time something occurs to me.

Skepticism is justified. It actually only happened to me once, when I had the idea of writing this explanation. 

Luis Camnitzer (ca. 1979)