Alex Katz is a bee. With his brush and oily pollen, he fertilizes the flowers in our imagination. Like a bee he has conjured into existence what was not here. Like a bee he moves from bloom to bloom, petal to petal, stamen to stamen. Steadily working, fulfilling the directives of his instinct. Alex Katz is a cave painter. The cave painter of our times and, we desperately pray, of the times yet to come. For eyes yet to come. If, in forty thousand years, when perhaps flowers no longer exist but these paintings do, they will have no author. Those whose longing eyes pass over them with awe will be certain only that they were made by a fellow human. And that is all that matters.