This is not interesting.
We tried to see this exhibit:

But did not. While our friends casually walked the floors of the Whitney, we waited for a train that would never come. Unlike the more (self-proclaimed) Interestings, we resist the city’s aggressive advances.
Why? There is no legitimate reason why. Art is beautiful. Together, we can ingest it quietly, without the chatter of the Pretenders. But —
No. Daily, we spoon ourselves puréed beauty as the tender babes we are. Near gurgling radiators, behind closed eyes. I prefer this. I cannot tell you why.
He’d offer a suggestion. Or a lucky number.
The most recent accordian collapse of my brain reveals my life’s greatest truth: this is not interesting. Nor am I. Nor you. All fakers.
You knew already, didn’t you?
You’re okay with it?


