An artist gives (not sells) an artwork to a bourgeoisie gallery,
They have no income, no fancy salary.
The bourgeoisie gallery sells it on to a bourgeoisie buyer,
Who keeps it in a safe, makes the price go higher.
They dole out the cash to the grateful artist,
‘We’ve taken our cut, we know best, We’re the smartest.
Do a few more; keep them large and rare,
Cause we’re taking them all to the latest art fair.”
The bourgeoisie gallery turns up in London or Basel,
Everyone trying to act uber posh casual,
“This guys the thing, the latest trend,
For you, we will make the tax rules bend.”
“Give us your cash, we don’t care where it’s from,
We will sell you some art. We will all make a bomb.”
We have sold our souls to the highest bidders,
When all art becomes a series of figures.
Bourgeoisie art for bourgeoisie sake,
Is making the art market totally fake.
Get out of my studio,
I cry and wail,
Art is my soul,
And it’s not for sale.