A slender, sixteen foot long mirror spanned the floor of an exhibition studio with an uninterrupted line of cocaine running down its center. Critics and visitors alike slowly realized what the powder was and some partook, getting on all fours or lying nearly prone on the floor to do so. A sort of joke on the fiendishness of the art market that invited viewers to satiate baser wants at the cost of prostrating one’s self in front of others.
