We have grown tired of critique. Grown past it. Grown into something more agreeable, more contrite, more pleasing to the eye. Just pleasant to be around. To be liked. Not so much respected. No one respects the wind, but a cool breeze is necessary. To be the wind at our backs making steps easier. To make our positioning amiable. That's what we're here for today. A more colorful world. The crunch that sells the candy. What is there left but instagram posts of artist portraits celebrating birthdays, smiling and excellent whites. We're all so friendly, all friends, this is friendly smiling. I am not imagining blood. I am not trying to kill you with my mind. I am not speaking through gritted teeth a preferable opinion. I am not lamenting the ass kiss that you are. I have never once at the bar said unkind things about your artists, never spoken ill of his collecting. Never seen the nepotism. Never held tongue of another to make it speak something I wanted to hear. This bowl of cherries is cadmium and doesn't require press release. I have instagrammed it to show I believe in beauty despite my gallery roster. The following things are bad: