For years I’ve been finding black balloons on the sidewalks—leftovers from nitrous oxide sessions.
This tiny piece of trash says a lot about our era: the taste for the disposable, the joyful–sad energy of partying, and the indifference to what happens after everything deflates.
The empty, shriveled balloon also raises questions for me as an artist: can art—as a speculative activity and financial bubble—be conceived as degrowth-oriented? From my art history and philosophy courses, one characteristic stands out: art tells its own story as a grand adventure. Renaissance, avant-gardes, the race for originality, radicality, and other intellectual auctions—its narrative seems structured by an ideology of constant surpassing.
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