Op Ed

Every bored divorcee or dreamy retiree who opens an art gallery to satisfy a vague spiritual longing is automatically, magically in league with the ruthless power brokers of Manhattan's art world.

"The sooner every spark of human vitality is snuffed out, the easier our job will be."

For the record, I was 12 years old and I had no respect for life.

One look into his black, dead-fish eyes and I knew that I was far more likely to be found rotting in the trunk of my car than to ever get paid for any art of mine he sold.

If I don't have to worry about oversensitive nuts seeking vengeance, criticizing art will be fun, like torturing anything that can't fight back.

Unfortunately, the Art Death system has no use for artists who say things like Satan has personally authorized me to bleach society down to the roots.

Nowadays, between late-night massages, morning tennis lessons and afternoons at the yacht club, I barely have time to be a creative genius.

I guess one necrotic art organization has to tell a lie or two to get money from the next necrotic art organization.

It's sad, the kinda riff-raff you end up rubbing elbows with when you develop spectacles involving human corpses.

If you were to stand at the corner of Montrose and Bissonnet, you could literally throw a stone and hit four of the five winners of the recent Artadia grants.…