Men go mad in crowds, said Charles Mackay, author of Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, but they recover their senses one by one. As if to bear him out, New Yorkers have been rushing to see a small piece of graffiti by Banksy, the famous British street artist who, clandestinely as usual, is “in residence” in New York for a month. Banksy’s latest creation was a small silhouette of the Twin Towers, out of one of which grew a golden chrysanthemum, painted on to the base of a building on Staple Street. It was not one of the artist’s best efforts, but such is his renown that people hurried to see it before it disappeared, apparently under the impression that by doing so they were demonstrating their enthusiasm for art.
Nemo finds himself tickled by Banksy, and I’ve been appreciative for years now.
His most endearing trait, as far as I’m concerned, is that he seems to take himself quite unseriously, while everybody else delivers themselves of portentous seriousness concerning him.
I think that’s funny as hell.
And in this case he’s netted another fish, one who pronounces him the living proof of America’s regrettable adolescence.