It struck me recently that “installation art” was yet another aesthetic regime of which I knew next to nothing. True, from passing mentions and occasional photographs in the overseas journals, I realised that “art” had now come to include young women displaying their unappetisingly unmade beds in galleries, and spectacles such as Damien Hirst chopping a cow and her calf into halves, to exhibit the butchered innocents in tanks of formalin for public edification. And I had heard that rich nutters paid millions of dollars to become the proud owners of such equivocal creations: an odd way indeed to flush…
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