“Me? Yeah, I’ll go ‘head. I’m just a working man, an image dealer. I go to the image dumps, the image sheds, the image wilderness, I’ve got my eye and my bag out, I scoop and pick and yank the best images. The finest, only the finest. I should add that --”

“The image trade’s a bust now, isn’t it? Nobody’s willing to pay anything for a decent image anymore. It’s all they can afford anymore, those bunk data, they need as much as they can get. The market’s too saturated, how do you dare step above?”

“Luck, diligence, I mean, I do what I can -- I have a critical eye, as it were, and I pick out the more obscure, more higher-level, more pseudo-critical images, the images which convince the viewer that they present critique, despite being objects -- I dream, one day, of having a bucket of white paint, and painting on all of the images,

‘This object critiques itself!’

So that being an object, delivering critique, renders the critique of itself hollow, i.e. the message of the critique is falsified by the commodification of the critique.”

“What a riot! Who’s your biggest client?”

“Well, I prowl overhead -- vigilant, I find those blockish mid-rises, those skulking beasts of sheet metal, faux wood, and post-industrial image theft, those obelisks of the annihilation of culture, and I think: yes, there is a spot where I can sell my images, for they have consumed all of their things….”

“So it’s structural, you’re saying?”

“No, it’s Whole Foods!”