“Its really difficult to assert that a painting, say, with splashes of paint all over it has any meaning. It’s hard to assert its meaning and I think the difficulty is partially the point of the work. Maybe this has something to do with the gentrification of ideas. The assumption with an artwork is that its aesthetic has attained an automatic validity. When you see Carl Andre’s brick sculpture at the Tate, you don’t stumble over it and think “What the fuck is that doing there?”. You look at it with a seamless thought: “Look . . . . . Carl Andre’s bricks . . . . Beautiful” – because beauty has become the iconic utterance of the gentrified classes. It’s an absolutely instinctive belief that aesthetics is unquestionable, embedded like an inalienable fucking right. Beauty can make a pile of bricks on the floor as palatable as a painting of a beautiful landscape. Alternatively, a more critically active question might be, as you stub your toe, “What the fuck is this doing here?””.