Saturday morning I woke up to a lovely, little Facebook message from an artist by the name of Loris Gréaud. The week prior he'd given the media a tour of his exhibition at the Dallas Contemporary. Much of the art he'd shown us that afternoon was destroyed during a performance the following evening at a members-only reception. I didn't much care for the work in the exhibition in the first place, which is what I wrote on this blog Friday. And he didn't much care for my opinions. Which is what he wrote to me Saturday morning. That, and a recipe for my future success, including the recommendation that I get "a boyfriend with at least 400 mg Anadrol a day." That drug he prescribes? It's a testosterone steroid for that boyfriend I so desperately need (note: he tells me this twice).
Because if you're a woman and you have an opinion about work made by this omnipotent French artist (whose Facebook profile picture is him in blackface) and he disagrees with you, you're obviously just in need of a good lay.
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Maybe I slept through that lecture in my art history classes. Wait, no. Ride your mutated horse out of this fucked up fairytale.