How do such instances of vital sensibility sustain themselves in an ambiance of memory? Why do they impel us, call attention to themselves like private graffiti dragged into alleyways of interfaciality and interspatiality?
What can be supposed from these collectible emissions as if children demanding to be seen and heard who denounce curatorial arts as bollix and play at what they do until they're made to puke from the grovelling Contemporary Art charade with its growing ranks of Tupperware hosts?
What is to be drawn from these ethnographic galleries that mimic trade procedures of an early-modern era when ridiculous breeds of men changed hands on the docks of cosmopolitan boomtown ports?
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