“In 1989 James Bond and with him every other spy lost their jobs. Without a cold war, with no Ivan and only one super power there was no need for a lonely man equipped with pre ipod-gadgets, beyond the law but in her majesties service and with license to kill, who with a swift DIY gesture could resolve global conflicts. Times had changed and the spy (…) had made himself useless.
With 1989 a strong political era came to a grand finale, but a new paradigm was already under cultivation and a new hero was needed: The Artist. Yes, the new James Bond was the artist, or rather the creative superhero always ready, packed with digital interfaces, perfecting the versatile performance of neo-liberal subjectivity sipping ice cold Chardonnay at a residency in Switzerland.
Indeed, there was no need for performances anymore. The artist’s life instead depended on the production of anecdotes and the ability to commute between research and residency projects. Thus the work needn’t be to any degree original but the individual’s uniqueness was refined in absurdum, who, in all modesty of course, emphasized that he or she was not at all an Artistah. And the word on everyone’s lips: collective. Collective, my ass!” ...