Your art is another officeblock we don’t need, a billboard obscuring the view, an uncommissioned act of flytipping. Your art is a blot on the landscape of our consciousness, an eyesore that needs to be eradicated. Your art is good cause to phone a government helpline.
Your art is all about you. It doesn’t deal with anyone’s preconceptions but your own. It addresses issues that only you can see and creates problems that only you need to be solved. Your deep and searching universal questions are everyday life for the rest of us. The only challenge involved in your art is trying to understand why you bothered to make it.
Your art is a soiree for your friends and your only friends are the ones who paid to go to the same school as you. The only opinions you form are your own: your art is an in-joke for inbreeders, a snooty laugh at everyone else’s expense.
Your art’s irony is a stab vest worn to collect a kebab from Peckham. You fear the nakedess of your own intentions because you don’t have any. The changing curtain your art coquettishly hides behind is all it is wearing: it looks as ugly as you do without clothes.
Your art is a comfort blanket for the fashionably thick, cushioned insoles for high-heeled shoes. Your art is easy to talk about in a way that makes stupid people feel good about themselves. It offers the illusion of understanding to those who understand nothing, it rapes the minds of those not competent to grant consent. Your art is a war crime with a complimentary cocktail.
Your art is money talking to itself, your art sits on a shelf waiting for someone to pay for it. Your art flatters the rich, it makes no sense in any place except a boardroom. Your art is its own price ticket.
The room in which you have installed your art is a coffin. Something is dead in here, and it stinks.
Your fascination with popular culture is not reciprocated. These commercials do not need your re-editing, these fanzines do not need your archive, this life is not a curious object waiting for your curatorial skills. Your art has a crush on someone who wishes you were dead.
The way you talk about your art makes it clear you you have no idea what you’re doing. Your statements are peppered with qualifiers and smoked with abstractions. The agency you ascribe to your art is a mysticism, an abdication of your own responsibility for it. When you pressgang interpreters to explain it and they fail, you blame the readers. You’re a clown who hits children when they don’t laugh.
Your art is vomit in my throat, mucus in my cough, blood in my stool. It’s environmental pollution. I see your art rotting on the pavement when I walk to work, I see it filling the gutters when the drains overflow, I see it splashed across the face of buildings after a terrorist attack. Your art is cancer.