Date: 24 October 2003
The audience walks around like wraiths wrapped in expensive gray and black. Their faces do not even display the rictus smile; too much money to worry about, botox, and sheer ennui have destroyed their ability to feel.
Then their is Mccarthy's profane art, the queen mother playing with shit or something, people naked savage, and junk covered in more shit/paint, food, sex: the dirty American dreaming. And the dead ghosts walk by the art that is meant to provoke, subvert, or at least stimulate. He's wasting his time with these people, but I suppose it's better than making pretty decorations for them, at least their ugliness is mirrored by the crap ( literally, for it is good art) they must admire to keep up with their avant-garde friends.
The spectacle is shit money paying good money for good shit they can't understand.[_shared_elements/comment_on_this_review.htm]