Some men are born great. Others have greatness thrust upon them. Slightly abridged, but you'll recognize the line: Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, passing comment on how our natures and our circumstances influence how we step figuratively to the plate. Philosophically speaking, provocatively speaking, the line's also a bit of cheat in that it mashes together opposing schools of thought.
A child lies solitary and silent on a grubby cart in Kabul. His tender feet and hands are caked in the same elements that freckle his baby face, soil his faux-regal clothes and bequeath the terrain around his fragile frame a strange equality of injustice.
I want Outsider Art to have an adoring audience, and I certainly don't want the artists to starve, but approach it with passion, buy it because you have a visceral reaction to it, because you can't live without it, it makes you pant, sweat, shiver, and horripilate.