The house I grew up in was full of books. I imagine a book without words or images would be a perfectly symmetrical object. As a reader of the blank book I could flick forwards through the leaves, turning at the end and coming back again. Not everyone grows up the son of an artist. My son thinks that when I go out to work I do hammering all day because hammering impresses him. It's an effort to find the blankness I need to make work. I once dreamt I wrote a Woody Allen joke.