The show I was invited to was one of those snobby art events. Lots of young pretentious men in tight jeans and a smug grin, girlfriends hanging off their arms. No class. Downing shots from the bar like the world was ending. In times like these I wish I were in Marlinspike Hall, sipping a Loch Lomond and consuming my alcohol like a fucking adult.

The DHC/ART was packed with these poseurs! All of them supposed “an-artists.” They do stuff with light and “magic” to create ostentatious displays. Apparently some of these inscrutable, incomprehensible pieces even damage people as part of their artistic purpose. At which point, for me, the meaning of the art is lost. It’s a fucking joke at that point.

Excerpt from the journal of Pierre Escoffier, March 12, 19██