Watching the TV, it seems as though everything is about the same distance from me, and consequently, that everything has equal value. A tube of Crest falling through an ethereal sky has about the same impact as the latest plane crash on the six o’clock news. There they are, neatly contained in the little box behind glass. One appears right after the other. The sameness may be enhanced by black and white, which I happen to have—and the black and white can render an otherwise threatening event quite harmless, since I know the real tangible world in which I live is multicolored. Usually. Sitting in my armchair, I am safe from the TV, its explosions, its propaganda, and its subliminal messages. And it is safe from my occasional verbal interjections and other less overt responses (which occur infrequently). The perfect equilibrium attained through my static vantage point (from the armchair) allows me to transcend all horror and experience television images aesthetically. This equilibrium is disrupted, however, if I move my chair in relation to the TV or switch the stations. It’s during these moments of chair scooting and channel changing that art is conceived.