You love it, you hate it, you love what you hate about it. And then one day it matters to you that your hatred is not longer restricted to your critical functions but is present in your metaphysical functions as well. Suddenly, getting out of bed is harder. And when you are up, you are listless, uninspired, achy.
You step outside to get some air and the neighbour tells you how his or her or their eldest is leaving town because he or she or they can no longer afford to live here. Logging on you read about an artwork that has broken an auction record. That the story is in the Arts section and not in the Business section reminds you of what Julian Stallabrass once wrote in Art Incorporated (2004): that the art world doesn't parallel the business world -- it is the business world. ("The art world is bound to the economy as tightly as Ahab to the white whale.")
A message pops up. A magazine wants you to review an exhibition by an artist whose gallery announced the week before that it will be "representing" that artist. You are flattered to be thought of as someone who might add value to that artist's work. You are are disgusted to be thought of as someone would even consider providing that service -- at 10-cents a word.
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