admin

Book Review: An Historical Enquiry into the Probable Causes of the Rationalist Artworks Lately Predominant in the Western Art World

by

By Sarah Ugue

Reviewed by S.L. Botts

In An Historical Enquiry into the Probable Causes of the Rationalist Artworks Lately Predominant in the Western Art World, Ugue embarks on a rigorous and exhaustive exploration of the intellectual and cultural forces that have shaped the ascendance of rationalist aesthetics in modern and contemporary art. This ambitious work weaves together history, philosophy, and art criticism into a dense but rewarding narrative that interrogates the very foundations of our artistic values.

The book’s central thesis posits that the dominance of rationalist art forms,artworks that emphasize logic, structure, and intellectual engagement over emotional or sensory impact,can be traced to a confluence of historical developments, including the Enlightenment, industrialization, and the rise of analytic philosophy. Ugue argues that these forces have not only influenced the art itself but have also conditioned the tastes of Western audiences to favour the cerebral over the visceral, the conceptual over the expressive.

A Scholarly Dive into Art’s Intellectual Evolution

The book unfolds in three distinct sections, each building upon the other to form a compelling argument. In the first section, the author traces the roots of rationalist aesthetics to Enlightenment ideals, particularly the emphasis on reason as the highest form of human achievement. Through meticulous analysis, the text connects the rise of minimalist and conceptual art to these intellectual traditions, showing how artists like Sol LeWitt and Donald Judd inherit the legacy of rationalism as much as they react against prior movements.

The second section takes a broader cultural lens, examining how industrialization and the scientific revolution instilled a preference for efficiency, order, and systems thinking. Here, the author deftly draws parallels between the factory floor and the gridded canvases of Piet Mondrian, suggesting that the visual language of rationalism is, at its core, the language of the modern world.

Finally, the third section delves into the reception of rationalist art, exploring the ways in which institutions, critics, and collectors have elevated such works as embodiments of intellectual sophistication. The work is unflinching in its critique of the art world’s complicity in reinforcing this trend, yet the tone remains analytical rather than polemical.

Dense but Rewarding

While the book’s insights are profound, its academic style may deter some readers. The prose is dense, packed with historical references and theoretical frameworks that demand careful attention. Terms like “aesthetic epistemology” and “structural semiotics” appear frequently, making this work best suited for readers with a strong background in art history or cultural theory.

However, for those willing to engage with its complexity, the rewards are substantial. The author’s ability to synthesize ideas from diverse fields is nothing short of remarkable. Particularly striking is their discussion of how rationalist art intersects with contemporary technology, suggesting that the digital age has both amplified and problematized the rationalist paradigm.

A Timely Contribution

At a time when the art world is increasingly polarized,between calls for a return to the expressive and the continued dominance of the conceptual,An Historical Enquiry offers a timely and necessary examination of how we arrived at this juncture. While the book does not prescribe a clear path forward, it equips readers with the tools to critically evaluate the assumptions underlying contemporary art.

Ultimately, An Historical Enquiry into the Probable Causes of the Rationalist Artworks Lately Predominant in the Western Art World is a monumental achievement, one that will surely become a cornerstone text for scholars and critics seeking to understand the intellectual currents shaping Western art. It is not an easy read, but it is an essential one.

Art World Exposed Podcast: “Kazakhstan Biennale, The Death of Taste, and a $17 Million Puddle”

by

Episode 70

Episode Summary:

In this week’s Art World Exposed, Saldo Caluthe and Tomas Sinke journey to the bleeding edge of cultural irrelevance to bring you the latest in the art world. From a perplexing new art fair in Kazakhstan to the philosophical implosion of taste as a concept, this episode is a tour de force of witticisms, existential despair, and intellectual rigour. Tune in as they probe the shadowy intersection of art and commerce.

00:00 , Intro: “Can Taste Be Saved?”

Saldo and Tomas open the episode with their usual banter, debating whether “taste” has officially died in the wake of recent NFT-inspired installations involving inflated pool toys and existential hashtags. Tomas argues taste was killed in 1917 by Duchamp’s urinal, while Saldo insists it’s been assassinated by Jeff Koons’ “balloon dog industrial complex.”

Key Quote:

Saldo: “If taste is dead, then what we’re left with is aesthetic nihilism,and frankly, I’m thrilled. Pass the inflatable banana.”

07:34 , The Kazakhstan Biennale: “Oil, Camels, and Avant-Garde Dreams”

A deep dive into the inaugural Kazakhstan Biennale for Radical Expression, held in the glittering outskirts of Almaty. Saldo describes it as “the Met Gala meets a gas pipeline,” while Tomas calls it “the art world’s best-kept secret because no one could afford the flight.” They discuss standout installations, including:

• A functioning oil rig repurposed as a “meta-performance about extraction and ennui.”

• A live camel auction where bidders must write haikus about desert erosion.

• A 14-hour soundscape composed entirely of goat bleats and archival Soviet propaganda speeches.

Saldo interviews curator Yelena Karasova, who describes the fair as “a necessary confrontation between global capital and localized imaginations.” The duo reflects on whether Kazakhstan’s role as a petrostate undermines the fair’s anti-capitalist rhetoric.

Key Quote:

Tomas: “It’s ironic, really,hosting a Biennale in a country where the GDP is mostly fossil fuels. But I guess when you’re bathing in oil money, it’s easy to fund goat bleats.”

25:11 , “The $17 Million Puddle”

Saldo and Tomas discuss the latest art-world scandal: the sale of Aqueous Forever, a conceptual piece consisting of a literal puddle of water encased in plexiglass. Created by anonymous collective WE~DRIP, the piece sold at auction for $17 million.

• Tomas critiques its derivative nature, calling it “just a wet Carl Andre.”

• Saldo defends the work, saying, “It’s about climate change and tears. Open your heart, Tomas.”

They take a call from a listener who claims they accidentally stepped in the puddle at a private viewing, only to be sued for damages by the gallery who said it was an artwork.

38:40 , Interview: Damien Lurks on “Artful Scams and The Performance of Integrity”

In an exclusive interview, controversial conceptual artist Damien Lurks reveals his latest project: a fake Kickstarter campaign to fund an invisible sculpture that doesn’t exist. Lurks calls it “an investigation into gullibility as an art form.” Saldo and Tomas debate whether Lurks’ self-proclaimed “anti-capitalist scam” is truly subversive or just another layer of exploitation.

Key Quote:

Damien: “The only real art left is convincing people they’re participating in art. That’s why my next piece will be a pyramid scheme. Literally,a pyramid made of dollar bills.”

54:22 , “Shows You Must Pretend to Have Seen This Month”

Saldo and Tomas close out with their top picks for gallery openings and exhibitions to name-drop at your next art-world gathering:

1. “Dirt: A Retrospective” at the Whaites Modern: A deep exploration of mud as a medium, featuring works by land artists and an on-site worm farm.

2. “The Ministry of Lint” at Snake Galleries: A textile-based exhibition focusing on dryer lint as a metaphor for domestic existentialism.

3. “Paint Me Like One of Your NFTs” at Yellow Cube: A hybrid exhibition of traditional oil paintings and digital works that can only be viewed via QR codes projected onto walls.

4. “Silence. Noise. Silence.” at the Philometta: An immersive sound-art installation where visitors sit in soundproof rooms, listening to recordings of themselves breathing.

5. Kazakhstan Biennale Satellite Exhibition at Museum of 21st Century Art: A condensed version of the Almaty show, featuring live-streamed camels and tiny bottles of oil-scented perfume for sale.

1:03:07 , Outro: “The Art World is Dead. Long Live the Art World.”

Saldo and Tomas close with a sardonic toast to the ever-bizarre art ecosystem. Tomas muses about quitting art entirely to open a pretzel stand in Berlin, while Saldo suggests the pretzels themselves could be part of a performance.

Key Quote:

Saldo: “Art isn’t about making sense. It’s about making someone else make sense of it for you,and charging them $200,000 for the privilege.”

My Life as an Art Dealer: Kazakhstan and The Art of Survival

by

By Harissa Beaumont

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be spending a week at the Astana Contemporary Visions Art Fair in Kazakhstan, I’d have laughed, poured myself another glass of Sancerre, and assumed you’d been reading too much experimental fiction. And yet, there I was, in a city where temperatures hover around -20°C and everything seems designed to remind you that you are, in fact, not as glamorous as you think you are.

The venue itself was a brutalist palace of glass and steel, as if someone had decided to build the Louvre Pyramid in the middle of a frozen steppe. Our booth was strategically placed between an Azerbaijani artist selling paintings of leopards playing canasta and a Georgian collective whose primary medium appeared to be old tractor parts. Across from us was the pièce de résistance: a towering installation by a Kazakh oligarch’s protégé,a life-sized yurt constructed entirely of loaded AK-47s. It was titled “Nomadism Reimagined,” but mostly it reimagined the definition of “health and safety hazard.”

The fair started with the kind of logistical nightmare that only the art world can conjure. A shipment of works,delicate canvases by British minimalist Bea Faulkner,was delayed in customs because someone forgot to file the proper paperwork. As I stood in an icy warehouse arguing with a customs officer, who kept insisting that the paintings might be “anti-government propaganda,” I experienced what I can only describe as an existential chill. Eventually, the works were released, but not before one of the canvases was precariously balanced on top of a forklift, which I could swear was straight out of an opera: “Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore… and then I lost my masterpiece to bureaucracy.”

Once the booth was set up, things began to look brighter. The Kazakh collectors were a fascinating mix of oil tycoons, oligarchs, and the occasional avant-garde fashion designer. One particularly enthusiastic buyer,a fur-clad magnate with an entourage the size of a small country,fell in love with a neon piece by Sandy Warre-Hole. “This is art,” he declared, jabbing a finger at it. “It says something about our times.” When I asked him what he thought it said, he replied, “That I am rich enough to buy it.” I suppose honesty is a virtue.

A young Kazakh artist named Altyn, who creates immersive installations out of horsehair and sand, came by our booth and loudly critiqued everything. “Too Western,” she sniffed, gesturing at a sculpture of melted iPhones in a sink by Milo. She later softened, though, and spent a full 20 minutes explaining her theory that the Silk Road was the first conceptual artwork in history. At some point, she offered to trade one of her horsehair installations for Bea Faulkner’s Untitled #27. I declined, but part of me regrets it,I could probably have used it as insulation.

By midweek, we’d sold several pieces, including a monumental work of the little known slums of Windsor by Thierry Duval to an Uzbek collector who insisted it would look “amazing in my dacha.” I didn’t have the heart to ask why anyone would hang a painting of urban desolation in a house designed for summer leisure. Meanwhile, I spent the better part of Wednesday dodging questions from a local journalist who wanted to know whether I thought NFTs were “dead yet.” I suggested that NFTs were “evolving,” which seemed to satisfy him enough to move on to photographing the AK-47 yurt. Unfortunately he got too close and fell onto a weapon which was still loaded. Shots rang out across the fair, narrowly missing several visiting dignitaries. The journalist was arrested, the last I heard he was claiming that he was a performance artist.

The fair’s grand finale was a gala dinner at a Soviet-era opera house that had been repurposed into a luxury event space. The theme was “Bridging East and West,” which apparently translated to serving foie gras dumplings while a local folk band performed a very enthusiastic rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. At one point, a rather exuberant collector leaned across the table to tell me, “Kazakhstan is the future of art.” He then spilled a glass of vodka onto his silk tie and declared it “a statement.”

By the time I flew back to London, I had frostbitten fingers, a promising commission from a Kazakh hotel chain billionaire, and an inbox full of emails demanding to know why their art hadn’t arrived yet. As Puccini would remind me, “Non siamo fatti per i climi freddi,” or, as I interpret it: art dealers are not designed for the steppes.

Until next week,

Harissa

Am I the Greatest Artist That Ever Lived?

by

Our occasional series wherein an artist attempts to persuade us that they are the greatest artist that ever lived.

Salsa Blower writes…

I have often pondered, in the quiet, contemplative moments between applying layers of burnt umber and Googling “what exactly is burnt umber,” whether I am, in fact, the greatest artist that has ever lived. The thought occurs to me not out of arrogance, you understand, but as a natural consequence of living with my own work. One cannot repeatedly behold one’s own genius without, eventually, asking the obvious question.

I realise such a claim demands evidence. Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel. I have Over-flowing Laundry Basket (Mixed Media). Van Gogh had Starry Night. I have Starbar Bite, a moody triptych rendered entirely in confectionary.

But let us not get bogged down in comparison. Greatness, after all, is not about fame or sales or whether your work has ever been accepted into a major public collection (though if anyone from the Tate is reading this: my phone is very much operational). Greatness lies in vision. In risk. In applying gesso to a perfectly good toaster and calling it a comment on fast food.

What makes me the greatest? Let me count the ways.

Firstly, I have mastered every medium I have ever encountered, often within minutes of encountering it. Oils, acrylics, tempera, cement, chutney,each has bowed to my will, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes immediately after I have misunderstood its basic properties.

Secondly, my work defies categorisation. Critics have tried, of course. One described my recent solo show as “a compelling argument for stricter curatorial standards.” Another called it “like Duchamp, but angrier and with more taxidermy.” I wear these reviews as badges of honour. Genius is rarely understood in its own time. (Though I would prefer it if people stopped using the word “concerning.”)

Thirdly, and this is crucial: I suffer. Not in the traditional artistic sense (I’m very well-fed, thank you), but in the way only someone burdened with vast creative power can. I see beauty where others do not. I see tragedy in a half-eaten Scotch egg. I once wept over a badly drawn horse in a children’s colouring book.

In short, I bring depth where there is shallowness, complexity where there is comfort, and often glitter where there should really be none.

Of course, greatness is rarely rewarded in real time. My last open studio had three attendees, one of whom was lost and the other two were there for the biscuits. But posterity will understand. One day, long after I am gone (or, ideally, just after I’ve signed with a better gallery), people will look at my work and say, “Ah yes, this is what it means to be truly, unapologetically misunderstood.”

Am I the greatest artist that ever lived? The question remains open. But until the Louvre returns my emails or the Royal Academy stops returning my parcels unopened, I shall continue to create with the full, blinding certainty of a man who once glued a pomegranate to a mirror and titled it Self-Portrait.

Because if that isn’t greatness, I honestly don’t know what is.

Signatories of the Billionairist Manifesto

by

1. Maximilian Louxe

An enigmatic artist whose works include the ashes of his own stock certificates suspended in jelly. Once auctioned his own private jet as “performance art,” earning $100 million in resale fees.

2. Claudia St. Fontaine

Creator of Liquidity Eternal and self-proclaimed “priestess of perpetual wealth.” Known for embedding diamonds into seemingly mundane objects, like traffic cones and frisbees.

3. Otto Von Chrome

The mind behind The Wheel of Fortune, Von Chrome merges industrial engineering with jaw-dropping luxury, creating kinetic sculptures that could bankrupt small nations.

4. Aurelius van Goppe

Famous for artworks like Infinity Dividend and sculptures made from melted Fabergé eggs. Claims to “convert capital into immortality” with his gaudy, gilded installations.

5. Belladonna Versailles

Known for satirical,but somehow earnest,pieces like The Velvet Tax Bracket, a literal velvet rope that sold for $25 million. Descended from French nobility, spending her family fortune was “too boring,” so she became an artist.

6. Sebastian Zaitsev

A former crypto tycoon who pivoted to Billionairism. Creator of The Emperor’s NFT, he insists his work “elevates blockchain into a new paradigm of cultural irrelevance.”

7. Genevieve Palladium

Famed for her destructive processes, such as dismantling luxury cars to reconstruct them as art. Her Lamborghini Shard Series set auction records,and set fire to her critics’ sanity.

8. Baron Cosimo Elan

“The Banker of Baroque” , Known for turning financial objects,like rare coins and share certificates,into over-the-top installations. His Gold Brick Sonata involves 400 literal gold bricks, each embedded with a miniature speaker playing Bach.

9. Titania Westwood

An eccentric sculptor whose works combine rare materials with ostentatious absurdity, like chandeliers made from champagne bottles emptied at her own parties. Famous for saying, “If it’s not wasteful, is it even art?”

The Billionairist Manifesto – the 21st Century Art Movement

by

By The Consortium for Infinite Value in Art

1. The Age of Aesthetic Poverty is Over

We declare that art has no higher calling than to elevate wealth itself. In an era where the poor cling to meaning and the middle class calls for relatability, we, the Billionairists, proudly proclaim: beauty is dead,long live the price tag. Art is no longer about the tediousness of what you feel but the joy of what you can afford.

2. Art Shall Be the Playground of the Elite

True creativity is forged in the crucible of excess. A starving artist creates paintings; a Billionairist creates bidding wars. We reject the dull utilitarianism of relatable art and embrace the unapologetic ecstasy of the unattainable. If everyone can understand it, we have failed.

3. The Medium is Wealth

We sculpt with Lamborghinis. We paint with liquid platinum. We compose symphonies of yacht horns echoing across private archipelagos. We reject the notion that art must fit on a wall or in a museum,it belongs wherever it cannot be reached. The museum is a prison for art. This will no longer do. We build penthouses for art.

4. Outrage is a Currency

To the masses who weep and gnash their teeth at our opulence: we hear you, and we monetize you. Your outrage fuels the engine of our artistic genius. Every viral tweet criticizing our $500 million diamond-encrusted treadmill installation is part of the performance. The critics are the chorus to our opera.

5. Value Over Vision

We believe the price is the art. The higher the price, the greater the work. A canvas worth $100 million is not 10 times better than a $10 million piece,it is 10 million times better. This is not theory; it is the new maths.

6. Destroy to Create

Billionairism demands we obliterate the old to build the new. We will shred Monet’s lilies and reassemble them into private helipad mosaics. We will melt Rodin’s bronzes and recast them as doorstops for Swiss chalets. Creation is destruction, and destruction is a tax write-off.

7. Art Shall Be Fluid (and Preferably Liquid)

We reject permanence. Our works must evolve, decay, or disappear entirely, like wealth slipping through unworthy fingers. Installations will require constant maintenance; sculptures will oxidize without costly preservation. Art should be a financial liability, not a cultural one.

8. Exclusivity is the Apex of Creativity

A Billionairist work must be rare,no, singular. It must inspire jealousy, not joy. If more than 10 people can see it at once, has it failed? If more than ten people could afford it, is it a crime against art?

9. Critics are Welcome (At a Price)

We invite critique, provided it comes from voices worth hearing. (And by “worth,” we mean net worth.) The opinions of those who do not buy our works are irrelevant,they are mere echoes in the void.

10. The Future Belongs to Us

We are the arbiters of value, the gods of gilded absurdity, the masters of hyper-excess. The poor will ponder, the critics will fume, and the middle class will gawk. But we, the Billionairists, will shape the future of art,one obscenely expensive masterpiece at a time.

Let the masses have their memes and their murals. We have rotating gold-plated Porsche Ferris wheels and a martini fountain that costs more than your city block.

Signed, with Champagne stains,

The Billionairists

Billionairism: Where the Canvas is Price and Aesthetics Are Optional

by

In the shimmering halls of today’s art world, a new movement has emerged that unapologetically rejects the constraints of conventional beauty and meaning. Billionairism, the art movement of the elite, has redefined the purpose of art itself: the higher the price tag, the more profound the masterpiece. Forget aesthetics or social critique; Billionairism celebrates wealth as the ultimate creative force.

A Portfolio of Priceless Excess

Among the movement’s most talked-about works is The Stock Market Serenade by Helena Roth-Smythe, a “living” installation featuring screens displaying live stock market fluctuations framed by platinum leaf and diamonds. Sold at auction for a jaw-dropping $130 million, it is less an artwork and more an emblem of billionairism’s ethos: art is value itself, as determined by the wealthiest bidders.

Similarly, Klaus Doff’s Monument to Infinite Growth shocked the art world with its audacious simplicity. This sculpture,a literal gold-plated ladder, 60 feet tall,was sold for $200 million and installed at the penthouse of a luxury Dubai skyscraper. Its minimalist concept screams “climb higher,” but insiders agree: the price tag is the true artwork.

The Price as the Point

The hallmark of billionairism is its relentless focus on cost over content. Why paint an evocative landscape or sculpt a human form when a blank platinum canvas titled Untitled (Tax Haven) by avant-garde provocateur Marco V. fetched $75 million? The piece, made of nothing but polished platinum and the artist’s signature, epitomizes the movement’s belief that art need not carry meaning,just heft in value.

“The art is not what you see,” Marco V. declared in a rare interview. “The art is what you pay to see it. True creativity lies in the bidding war.”

A Movement for the Few (and the Rest of Us to Watch)

Critics argue that Billionairism is less about artistic merit and more about turning the art market into an exclusive playground for oligarchs and billionaires. Yet, supporters maintain that this is precisely its brilliance. “Who needs aesthetics when you have exclusivity?” asked Hoey’s Billionairism curator, Christine Maltravers. “The act of pricing art at unimaginable levels creates its own aura of mystique and power.”

Take, for example, Eternal ROI, a piece by Ezra Monet (no relation), which is a single solid block of rare Burmese ruby inscribed with the words “Worth It” in 24-karat gold. At $400 million, it set the record for the most expensive “functional sculpture” after being used as a paperweight in a private yacht.

Why You Should (Want to) Join Billionairism

Billionairism has made art less about what it represents and more about what it represents you own. In this movement, art collectors don’t seek beauty,they seek dominance. The acquisition of a Billionairism piece is a public proclamation: “I can afford what you cannot even comprehend.”

It’s no surprise that billionaire tech mogul Xander Vance built his latest venture capital office around The Algorithm’s Throne, an LED-covered chair embedded with Bitcoin chips, valued at $320 million. Employees never sit on it, but as Vance famously said, “It reminds us every day that value is perception.”

Billionairism for the Masses? Not Quite.

While the average person may never own a Billionairism masterpiece, the movement’s sheer audacity has left its mark on the cultural zeitgeist. Instagram influencers pose with Billionairism works at galleries, while finance bros daydream about one day owning Fiscal Nirvana, a billion-dollar work rumored to be made entirely out of rare earth metals and shredded luxury brand receipts.

Billionairism is not just an art movement,it’s a lifestyle, a spectacle, and an assertion of dominance. In this gilded world, price transcends aesthetics, and wealth becomes the ultimate brushstroke. As Roth-Smythe once quipped, “Billionairism is not about creating art,it’s about creating envy.”

Billionairism – the best art -ism since Impressionism?

by

In the ever-evolving panorama of contemporary art, a provocative and opulent movement has emerged: Billionairism. This avant-garde trend audaciously melds the extravagance of wealth with the profundity of artistic expression, creating a spectacle that is as much about opulence as it is about art.

Defining Billionairism

Billionairism is characterized by its grandiose scale, lavish materials, and themes that oscillate between satire and homage to affluence. Artists within this movement employ a visual lexicon replete with symbols of luxury,yachts, private jets, and exclusive commodities,rendered in mediums ranging from gilded canvases to diamond-encrusted sculptures. The movement serves as both a mirror and a magnifying glass, reflecting society’s fascination with wealth while scrutinizing its impact on culture and values.

Iconic Artworks of Billionairism

One of the seminal pieces epitomizing Billionairism is The Golden Paradox by the enigmatic artist known as QWERTY. This installation features a life-sized, 24-karat gold-plated Ferris wheel, each carriage occupied by intricately crafted figures representing the ultra-wealthy. The work juxtaposes the cyclical nature of amusement with the perpetual pursuit of wealth, inviting viewers to ponder the true cost of luxury.

Another noteworthy contribution is Opulence Revisited by the duo Gild & Gilt. This mixed-media piece incorporates shredded stock certificates and crushed gemstones, encapsulated in resin to form a mosaic of a burning dollar sign. The artwork serves as a poignant commentary on the volatility of wealth and the ephemeral nature of material possessions.

The Satirical Undertones

While Billionairism dazzles with its display of affluence, it is deeply rooted in satire. The movement echoes the irreverence of Pop Art, much like Roy Lichtenstein’s works that left interpretation up to the viewer, often ridiculing the subjects they portrayed.  Similarly, Billionairism challenges the audience to discern whether it glorifies wealth or critiques its excesses, thereby engaging viewers in a dialogue about societal values.

Becoming Part of the Movement

To immerse oneself in Billionairism is to engage with art that is as thought-provoking as it is visually stunning. Collectors and enthusiasts are drawn to its audacious commentary and the exclusivity it represents. Acquiring a piece from this movement is not merely a purchase but an entry into a discourse on wealth, power, and art’s role in reflecting and shaping societal norms.

In a world where the lines between art and affluence continue to blur, Billionairism stands as a testament to the enduring power of art to provoke, challenge, and inspire.

My Life as an Art Dealer: Champagne Problems

by

By Harissa Beaumont

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a London art dealer in January is both underdressed for the weather and overdressed for the company. This past week has been a whirlwind of frostbite, self-promotion and truly appalling canapé decisions.

On Monday, I hosted a VIP private view for one of the gallery’s more controversial artists, Pascal Duvall. Pascal is a French conceptualist whose latest collection, “Reckoning with Banality,” features portraits of Amazon delivery drivers,painted entirely in melted vegan cheese. The pieces are surprisingly powerful, though the smell in the gallery is now something between a raclette restaurant and a forgotten gym bag.

The event was invitation-only, which meant, of course, that half of Mayfair’s gatecrashers found their way in. One particular guest, a suspiciously young “collector” named Tyler, cornered Pascal. I don’t know what he said, but Pascal later asked me if it’s legal to deport people for crimes against art.

Tuesday was spent at a fair in Shoreditch, which was as exhausting as you’d imagine. These smaller fairs are ostensibly designed to give a platform to emerging artists, but in reality, they’re just an excuse for tech bros to walk around pretending they “get” postmodernism. One particularly harrowing moment came when I overheard a man in a puffer jacket explain to his girlfriend, “This isn’t about the painting,it’s about the artist’s trauma. But, like, I’d buy it if the frame was gold.”

By Wednesday, the gallery was in chaos thanks to a shipping debacle involving a marble sculpture by Davide Greco. The piece, “Solitude in Marble,” was due to be installed in the home of an oligarch who only communicates via his personal assistant (a man with the personality of a broken fax machine). Somewhere between Naples and Kensington, the crate went missing. After several frantic calls, I discovered the sculpture had been mistakenly delivered to his mansion in Belgravia rather than his mansion in SW3.

Thursday, I attended a charity auction at some stately home in Surrey. It was one of those ghastly affairs where everyone pretends to care about endangered species while bidding on yacht holidays in the Maldives. I contributed a small contemporary piece from an artist I represent, a minimalist called Wilma Stevens who works with charred wood and glass shards. It sold for £50,000 to a woman who declared it would “look divine” in her orangery. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the piece is titled “Collapse of Capitalism”.

Friday brought me to a gallery brunch in Belgravia, a cursed idea if ever there was one. The menu featured “avant-garde avocado toast” (essentially avocado served in a glass box), and the crowd included a woman who loudly pronounced Basquiat as “Bas-QUETTE.” When I tried to excuse myself, she grabbed my arm and said, “You’re an art dealer,can you explain why people are still obsessed with Picasso? Like, hasn’t he been cancelled?”

The week culminated on Saturday night at a dinner party hosted by one of my more eccentric clients, Margot von Helmut. Margot, who insists she was “a muse to Warhol” (she wasn’t), owns a sprawling Georgian townhouse filled with so much Damien Hirst, it looks like a taxidermy enthusiast’s fever dream. The guest list included a DJ who claims to collect “soundscapes” and a novelist who once tried to pay me for a painting in poems.

The pièce de résistance of the evening was when Margot unveiled her latest purchase,a £150,000 neon sign that reads “F. Austerity”. As she did this, a waiter passed around bowls of caviar. I can’t decide if the moment was ironic, iconic, or utterly unbearable.

There you have it: another week in the glamorous, maddening, faintly absurd world of art dealing. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office, googling “career change after 30” and trying to scrub the smell of vegan cheese out of my coat.

On the Virtue of Owning What One Cannot Use

by

By Compton Greene

There are those who believe in the merit of utility, who speak reverently of function over form and mutter dark oaths like “practicality” as if it were a virtue. These people, of course, are precisely why the world is so irredeemably dreary. For it is my contention that the highest form of ownership is not of things one can use, but of things one cannot, and probably will not, ever use.

The beauty of an object lies not in its utility, but in its utter refusal to serve any purpose at all. A porcelain snuffbox too delicate to hold snuff, a chair upholstered in silk too rare to sit on, or a clock that neither ticks nor tocks but merely gleams,these are the treasures of the true aesthete. To own such items is not to possess mere things, but to elevate oneself above the vulgarities of practicality and into the ethereal realm of connoisseurship.

The Historical Precedent of Pointless Possession

History, as ever, is on my side. Consider the great collector Charles Saatchi, who famously purchased Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, a dead shark suspended in formaldehyde. What could be less useful than a shark in a tank? And yet, what could be more profound? Saatchi did not acquire this piece to swim with it, nor to eat it, but to display it as a statement: “I own this shark, and therefore I own the idea of mortality itself.”

Even further back, Louis XIV adorned the gardens of Versailles with fountains so elaborate they required an entire river to function. Did anyone truly need fountains that could spray 27 distinct patterns while a quartet played nearby? Of course not. But that is precisely the point. Such gestures proclaim, “I am beyond the tyranny of purpose.”

The Philosophy of Uselessness

To own what one cannot use is to engage with life as the Greek gods do: detached, serene, and ever so slightly amused. Usefulness is the realm of beasts of burden and bureaucrats. Uselessness is the domain of the divine. As the great 19th-century dandy Oscar Wilde wrote, “All art is quite useless.” Wilde understood that to be useless is not a failure, but a triumph,a refusal to be reduced to mere function.

The useless object, then, is not a thing,it is an idea. It exists solely to inspire, to provoke, and to remind us that we are not machines bound to work, but humans born to dream.

Why Own What You Cannot Use?

Owning useless things confers three inarguable benefits:

1. It Demonstrates Power

The act of acquiring something utterly impractical is the ultimate display of dominance. Anyone can own a functional wristwatch, but to own a Fabergé egg encrusted with diamonds,an object that tells neither time nor truth,is to proclaim, “I am free from the petty chains of necessity.” It is a flex of the highest order.

2. It Cultivates Mystery

There is nothing more alluring than a person who owns things they cannot explain. Imagine walking into someone’s drawing room to find a 16th-century suit of armor looming in the corner. Does the owner wear it? Probably not. Do they even know its provenance? But does it make them seem impossibly intriguing? Absolutely.

3. It Elevates the Mundane

To own useless objects is to transform one’s life into a curated exhibition. A paperweight carved from meteorite. A goblet made of Venetian glass too fragile to hold wine. A 12th century 12-foot tapestry depicting a hunt for a mythical beast impossible to identify. Each item whispers of a world beyond the ordinary, a realm where function bows to fantasy.

The Dangers of Utility

Utility, I must stress, is a dangerous and insidious trap. The moment one begins to value an object for what it does rather than what it is, one has surrendered to mediocrity. Consider the tragic case of the modern smartphone: a device praised for its versatility, its endless stream of functions, its ceaseless usefulness. And yet, who among us truly admires it? No one places their iPhone on a pedestal or invites guests to gather round and marvel at its dull perfection. It is, in the end, a slave to its purpose, and thus entirely unworthy of reverence.

Contrast this with a gilded clock crafted by an 18th-century French artisan that no longer keeps time but still captures hearts. It does nothing, but it is everything.

A Practical Guide to Useless Ownership

For those of you new to the world of owning what you cannot use, I offer the following principles:

• Start Small: Begin with something minor but absurd, such as a quill made of solid gold or a top hat made of cement. You will never write with the one, or wear the other, but you will admire them endlessly.

• Curate for Confusion: Choose objects that provoke questions. A marble bust of someone you cannot identify is a good start

• Display, Don’t Hide: The purpose of the useless object is to be seen, not stored. Place it in a spot where it will baffle and delight in equal measure.

Beyond Use Lies Immortality

In the end, the act of owning what one cannot use is not merely a gesture of taste but a declaration of immortality. The useful object fades into obscurity the moment it ceases to function. The useless object, however, endures. It becomes legend, a testament to its owner’s refusal to be bound by the dull mechanics of practicality.

So go forth, and acquire that which serves no purpose. Buy the chair you’ll never sit in, the chandelier too heavy to hang, the painting too provocative to explain. In doing so, you will not only elevate your life,you will elevate yourself.

And remember: Non utile sed splendidum. Not useful, but splendid. Let this be your motto, your creed, your raison d’être.