too bad, we’re in paradise

The adventure of modern art is over. Contemporary art is only contemporary of itself. It no longer transcends itself into the past or the future. Its only reality is its operation in real time and its confusion with this reality. Nothing differentiates it from technical, advertising, media and digital operations. There is no more transcendence, no more divergence, nothing from another scene: it is a reflective game with the contemporary world as it happens. This is why contemporary art is null and void: it and the world form a zero sum equation… [promoters of the art scene today are involved in]  insider trading, the shameful and hidden complicity binding the artist who uses his or her aura of derision against the bewildered and doubtful masses.

A sweating body already offers a show of erotic repulsion and attraction. The body’s primordial temptation to cover itself with its secretions. A mere trickle of water flowing over a smooth stone is enough to make it erotic. Everything that slides evokes sexual pleasure, even the wind. Sliding would thus seem to be the source of all pleasure, and perhaps of meaning.