June 11, 2007

Alas, Not-So-Poor Yorick

My boyfriend used to say he wanted my skull after my death, but after seeing the Body Worlds exhibit (here's my review), he's not so sure. Too bad, 'cause tombs have never appealed to me; but Damien Hirst's For the Love of God does. (Per the NYT, the title came from Hirst's mother who exclaimed, "For the love of God, what are you going to do next?")

I want mine with little lightbulbs in the eye sockets.

Do you think art, or its patrons, are overly-obsessed with the wrong, or poorly-chosen realities lately? Would we like this piece as much with cz's? (Is what's-his-face using real powdered dinosaur bones, or just patronizing unregulated entrepreneurs? Personally, I'd like to know. Of course, if his real work consists in an experiment regarding our gullibility, GREAT; but then, I'll be annoyed if he doesn't share the experimental results.)

Actually, what I see lately is an existentialist trend -- an epidemic of ennui. Bush's handlers were prolly onto something when they let on he was reading Camus.

(Update here.)

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