AT SOME POINT, THINGS BECAME UNSECURED, hooks unable to reach the eyes—or no eyes at all but only hooks, jabbing blindly into anything. Hurt jabbing.

So much current art presents the viewer with a surplus of “personality,” but personality faked. Well, perhaps not exactly faked, but too often sadly overwhelmed by the various cultural effluvia the artist deploys—cartoons, historical styles, goth monstrosities, Paris Hilton, etc.—supposedly to express “individuality” but which finally only intensifies a detached intimacy with whom- or whatever, a cold, brittle kind of connection born of alienation, risking and revealing very little (nothing at all perhaps) about anything or anyone. * How does any artist—any person, even—find an eye for his or her hook in the inundation of the world, almost every bit of it commodified, mediated, copyrighted (whatever that means anymore)? If art can no longer

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