Maybe you’re as sick of reading about Jeff Koons as all of us are of writing about him. Maybe you thought it was kind of fun at first, the incessant chatter of jokes, quips, and puns about the inundation of Koons News–about his retrospective at the Whitney, his public art project at Rockefeller Center, his handbags at H&M, his “virtual sculpture” for the recent cover of a fashion magazine, his friendship with Lady Gaga, his ass–but now this sturdy current of announcements has worn you down. But it’s important to remember the greatest of all ironies: that it’s life in the end that kills you. Anything that was once enjoyable will be slowly drained of any pleasure–like water running from a faucet–and the change will happen so gradually that the thrill will be gone before you even realize it has started to go missing. Worse is you won’t even be able to account for this joylessness. What invisible force destroyed it? Its absence will hit you hardest when you realize: nothing is responsible, nothing save the inevitable half-life of happiness, a mere recurring victim of the prosaicism of being alive. It’s not just that good things end, it’s that they become less good first. Happiness doesn’t simply leave, it becomes boring first. Mirth turns into a routine in an endless cycle that is itself routine! By the time the cycle is complete, it begins again, leaving you unable to ever fully prepare for the perennial disappointment of having to wake up and face another day.
Which is to say: Jeff Koons has created a series of sculptures to benefit the United Nations Foundation. They are made from luxury handbags donated by Sofia Coppola, Marc Jacobs, Diane von Furstenberg, Almine Ruiz-Picasso and others, according to The New York Times. How does one comment when there’s nothing left to say? When day is done, how will you face the black night?