Once, art world controversies felt urgent—sparking rebuttals, defenses, moral fervor. Now, fatigue eclipses fire.
Headlines and counterpoints blur into ritualized outrage, each claiming righteousness, none transforming reality. The cycle repeats without rupture, rendering dissent ornamental.
This emotional flatness—what feels like anhedonia—is itself a product: outrage commodified, hope exhausted. Manufactured hopelessness ensures engagement without change, feeling without consequence.
The thrill is gone not from lack of cause, but from oversaturation. When critique becomes spectacle, revolution becomes improbable.