AS THE LAWRENCE WEINER RETROSPECTIVE at the Whitney Museum fades to white under multiple coats of
Kilz and latex paint, and his various exuberant ephemera take up residence at LA MoCA before wending their way back to their rightful property owners; as Tate Modern and the ICA London emerge
from momentary spells of whispered headlines, random sketching, streams of consciousness, and face slapping; as New York's New Museum concludes its vestigial assault on the Work of Art, not to mention the etiquette of proper spacing, and as visitors to the new building experience the worst case of buyer's remorse since the reopening of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago; as the Metropolitan Museum's Dutch paintings readjust to the staid organizing principles of artist's name, date, and genre rather than hanging according to who bought what
from whom (on whose advice) and resold it to so - and - so, who then donated it to the Met; and as the scent of modesty - prosaic, charcoal filtered, crystalline - emanates
from the 2008 Whitney Biennial, now is as good a time as any to talk about money.
We also had pet issues (cats), so we ended up tearing out the carpet ourselves a couple of weekends ago and then spending the week nights bleaching and
Kilz - ing, and sealing our sub-floors to keep the smell
from coming back.