The Art Critic (1919-20) by Raoul Hausmann
Nothing changes much, does it? Journalists and / or arbiters of taste whose opinions can be bought disgustingly cheap, either figuratively or literally. Often far too close to the people they’re pretending to write about objectively. Writing tool poking out erect, lascivious tongue flicking at every passing woman. Drunk.
PS: I like Hausmann’s business card (?) here, proclaiming himself President of the Sun, the moons and the little Earth (inside surfaces).
