Art is critical, its critics standing around the hospital bed tap-tapping their fingers to the beeps and the suction of its Rube Goldberg life support apparatus. Its last moments take it through a stream-of-consciousness fever dream from the sparkle of creative kindling in a three-story concrete flophouse to the empty grandeur of the elite art scene to the DIY underground punk show after-party. Art is dead; welcome to the afterlife.
Used availability for Liam Sweeny's Art Along the Aether