I’m delighted to assure you that bullshit knows no boundaries or statute of limitations. The New Yorker had a lengthy article on “the Art Doctor”, conservator Christian Scheidemann. I respect Mr Scheidemnan’s encyclopedic expertise. What I find thoroughly laughable is his considerable talents are keeping art swindles by the likes of Damien Hirst et al, on life support.
Exceptions to the sorrow were some droll moments where beetles were gnawing the guts of a Wilfredo Lam canvas because they liked the glue. Wilfredo could kick the asses of all the current Po-Mo darlings, and then entertain their mistresses in style.
So, I decided to fire off a letter, to hurl a dead cow over the parapets if you will:
Did it occur to anybody else while reading “The Art Doctor” that the real task was conservation of a preposterous fraud? Every “artist” reverentially mentioned is a slick bullshit artist, a mountebank, a swindler and cheat; pimply adolescent trolls stumbling in the footsteps of giants. I can’t wait for all of their “works” to implode due to their moronic ineptitude.
There was no thud, but it felt good anyway.
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