From the Great Pyramid to Trump’s sad obsession with giant flagpoles, mankind has always clawed at meaning. Mere survival is never enough. They must carve something, build something, paint something—anything—to shout, “I was here!” Whether it is a monument propping up social hierarchies, a prize history will laugh at, or for those with less talent, a confused mess labelled “art,” the aim is the same: to be noticed.
This latest effort on Roseberry is no different. It reeks of desperation, a poor attempt to dodge the one fate they fear: being ignored.
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