"This sculpture interrogates the liminality of post-industrial silence."
Translation: It's a rusted radiator in a white room, and it costs more than your mortgage.
If you've ever stood in a gallery feeling like a philistine because you didn't "get" a pile of bricks, or if you've ever lived in a "machine for living" that felt more like a "container for misery", you've been a victim of the pseudoprofound.
In Gilded Shell, I comment on the aesthetic gaslighting of the modern era. From the leaking roofs of modernist icons to the semantic acrobatics of the avant-garde, I contend that true profundity shouldn't require a 500-page manual to be felt.
It's time to stop nodding politely at the "invisible suit" and start trusting your eyes again in this age of high-brow nonsense.
