The megalith known as today’s art market has more personalities than noted 1970s schizophrenic Sybil. A recap of the hyped-up, rocket-fueled auction sales this past week might be better served in the form of an animated cartoon, but here is my attempt.
The trip didn't get off to an auspicious start upon my arrival from London — I passed a prone man with police kneeling on his chest bang in the middle of 6th Avenue, while he screamed at his accuser, “When I get out of jail I will have you killed.”
What a welcoming that might serve to reflect an art world characterized by the big guns — mega-galleries and auction houses — tightening the reins on increasingly disenfranchised, mid-level artists and dealers.
The auctions are like elections held in monster circus tents, where one and all anxiously await the results of the Lib Dems and Tories (Labour didn’t rate a mention after performing so badly earlier this month in the U.K.). Objects are mercilessly traded and re-traded in a dizzying, tail-chasing cycle for ever-increasing profits. Can it or will it persist?