Stephen Scott scribbles a string of letters along the bottom edge of a newspaper, before tearing it off. “That’s me, that’s what I am,” he says, passing it to me. The letters, all capitals, spell out NEOPOSTROMANTIC. Nearly everything else he’s said has gone well over my head,  but I’m fairly certain this word is as unique as Stephen. I ask him to sign it, a postmodern portrait of the artist, and slip it into my pocket. Continue reading Stephen Scott, The Definitive Neopostromantic →