Robert Longo was shit in 1981. Trendy stupid shit, and transparently moronic at that. Oh yes, existential angst, or something, expressed by contorted bodies, one after other after the other after the other.
The passage of time has only made his work seem even shallower, the perfect decor for the apartment in American Psycho, the kind of art that stockbrokers and PR boyz love and sell to each other in a massive and apparently unending circle jerk.
As dated a relic, you would hope, as matte black Braun kitchen appliances, white unstructured jackets and synth-pop.
But no.
The bastard gets hired for some astounding amount of money to rip himself off for an ad campaign.
My idealistic high school English teacher used to tell us that time would filter out the junk and leave only the worthwhile.
Maybe my teacher was wrong.
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