I pass judgment. 
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence? 
 
Sculpting formalism.  
It pulls you into the sculpture along with lab wonks,cat stranglers, lesser rogues, screwball robots humming the same songs of contrasting action hulks that celebrate manifold casino archetypes.  
 
Their refrains go like this, early and often; three or more faddos attempting authenticity; spoken text in utopian media, tense and alive volumes of emphatic notebooks; high and low brow platinum blonds and flamboyant offspring performing stagey inculcation.  
 
Beating me up pouring coffee to make me cry O not today.