Anyone who doesn’t conform to the ever-narrowing checklist of socially constructed expression—now enforced by the current left, self-appointed custodians, guardians, and frankly, owners of the arts—will find themselves artistically homeless.
Not in galleries. Not in museums. Not in the curation WhatsApp groups.
The enforcement grid? Bulletproof.
(Well, only in theory—fragile as wet tissue paper on windy day at a poking-at-things festival in practice.)
While the scene desperately tries to adopt digital art to stay relevant, it gatekeeps most of the culture that actually created it. You won’t find Bitcoin on the digital art mile at Basel, which is the mother of all that unfolded for NFTs briefly, nor references to the wave of crypto artists and what they stood for.
What you might get is a tongue-in-cheek, MFA-injected “discourse” reference that says absolutely nothing—just highbrow mental masturbation fit for cocktail parties.
Naturally, I’m the bad guy for pointing out this precarious house of cards.
But at least I do it in neon.
All while being a homeless arts refugee, seeking shelter in a world allergic to its own reflection.
