BURN IT ALL DOWN.

CW: strong language.

when I first arrived at the REDACTED art fair, I thought I was at the wrong gate: compared to the people all around me, restlessly waiting for the doors to open - well, I was severely underdressed.

I thought nothing of it since it was, in fact, the correct gate.



once I was inside, I spent a few blissful minutes admiring the art on display - contemporary works from galleries and studios the world over.

I thought nothing of the business cards strewn about on clean plastic coffee tables, either: I figured this is a great moment for artists and gallery owners, or art collectors, to connect; nothing out of the ordinary - I had experienced my fair share of networking before.



I suppose my enjoyment would have continued untainted had I not heard them, and I do not know yet what that says about me as a person.

I suppose I would have found out anyway, inevitably.

it was a simple conversation, really - between an artist and their potential customer; I do not know why it had the effect it did.

but for some reason, it made me finally stop for a second and look around.



and this time I saw it.

this time I did think something of it.



perhaps I was excessively naïve in thinking this was simply going to be a showcase.

yet, the newfound understanding that I was in fact attending what essentially amounts to an art-related shopping spree for the uselessly rich made my experience of the event pivot to the grotesque.



I saw the business owners, the entrepreneurs, the CEOs.

I saw the people who made too much money for their own good.

I saw the people who peacocked their social status through flamboyant designer outfits - the kind that say nothing, yet everything about the person wearing them.

I saw the soulless copycats, and the zombie formalists.

I heard the business-district accents of those who snort cocaine during sushi lunches, the laughs of those who offer private six-figure settlements to silence sexual abuse allegations.



I saw the exhibit for what it was - and felt the bile rising in my throat.



I suddenly felt awfully tired, and the sound of businesspeople tapping away at their MacBook Pros increasingly gnawed at my sanity.

a single, crystal-clear thought finally bubbled to the surface:









BURN IT ALL DOWN









I don't mean to imply artists should not be paid a fair wage for their labour, or get the opportunity to promote themselves to people with money to burn.

one of the (un?)fortunate side effects of making art is being able to estimate how much time, resources, effort - money went into producing the work on display at the fair.

and God knows, I'd like to survive off of my art too one day.

this is not about them - about us.



and yet.



I can't shake the disgust.

I can't shake the rage.

I can't shake the knowledge that these pieces are to (and too often are made to) rot in the high-rise offices and holiday mansions of people all too willing to steal ever-increasing amounts of wealth from the workforce every year - a workforce partly comprised of the very artists who, when they're not being overworked and underpaid at the umpteenth copy-and-paste coffeehouse or fast food joint, must lick the shoeshine off their bosses' Oxfords to ensure survival.



I don't think you should either.



burn it all down.