Down to its last trick and it can still make us laugh.
Art is repulsion floating in a bowl of soup. Sometimes, it is the soup.
It has eyes—one busted searchlight after another looking for souls at the bottom of a water glass.
Art treats its audience as it does a case of bottles. We are bottles of ghosts. All we need is a bit of uncorking.
It does not budge when hammered down. Some flimsy rowboat that can be disassembled into exactly nine pieces.
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