STATEMENT   William Steinman, have you seen your new body of work? Have you pulled up one of the two seats at Will Steinman’s studio in Los Angeles and taken a gander? Did you happen to stare for more than a minute? Did it all live up to your expectations?

Did panic grip your soul as you stared into the whirling hypno-wheel of the spray painted brooches, where Formalism and Pop spin in a crazy raw found material vortex? When you saw the piece described as “it’s like a giant flowing Wu-Tang flag being ripped to shreds by broomstick handles, all mounted on plywood by a gallon of liquid nails,” did your mind touch the void for a minute?

Did you notice that the studio walls were a reliable forecaster of what actually came to your gallery cortex? Were the eerie images of faded blue women stolen from the bodegas and hair salons of the Lower East Side mesmerizing? Was there a loss for words when you saw Michael Jordan dunking over the pile of computer generated marijuana? Was there just enough Pop?

What is going on with this new work of yours, really?

When you have a second Mr. Steinman, what happened to all that stuff you learned in graduate school?

Has anyone ever told you that your high-wattage passion for white-collar American mental brainwash makes you a bootleg copy of Mel Gibson, (the Mad Max version)? If Mr. Gibson was balding, drove a Honda Civic and drank too much gin? When you cruise around the country looking at art, rasping out slangy odes of criticism in the un-fancy places where Americans like to get down and greasy, do you really mean it? Well, do you?

Or is it all an act? Is that why the kind of art you celebrate on television is treated with so little respect at most Chelsea galleries? When you hung that sign above the entrance of your studio that says "Mechanically Found Ghost," were you just messing with our heads?

Does this make it sound as if everything at Will Steinman’s studio is incredible?

I didn’t say that, did I?