Call it conceptual Art. Call it utter nonsense.

An Armani pencil-fitted shirt and a Target boxer. Christian Dior Higher gcologne and socks worn inside out. Cigarette stubs and the April edition of Men’s Health. The New York Post and Marx’s Communist Manifesto. A half- empty bottle of a 2005 Spanish Red, but Wine nonetheless. And everything else, from Paper to Paul Mitchell, empty bottles that that filled Artesian Water from Fiji or forty ounces of Budweiser Light and Laundry bags filled to the brim, assignments and take- out from the Diner across the street. And a sea of wires that make life possible in a wireless world.

This is the shoebox existence of an almost twenty Manhattaner in university, a series of contradictions waiting to be flattened as youth passes by and stability ensues. Or why a Sunday morning does not necessarily reflect the elation and exuberance that is a Saturday night, or why an almost twenty is not yet marriageable, and needs a couple of internships and some years in college before he has a job. But whatever it might be, is it art?



Call it Conceptual Art. Call it utter nonsense. Or call it just the times we live in. But a bed with the sheets stained with body secretions, the floor with things from the her room, from condoms to knickers with menstrual period strains to slippers, just the way Tracey Emin found it to be after a suicidal depression kept her in it for days almost won the Turner Prize in 1999.

View the image of here.

It's a pity that Tracy Emin found Charles Saatchi before I did.

(This is an excerpt of my second progression for the New York University Expository Writing Program. For the whole 1430 words of it, leave your request on the comments or drop me an E- Mail at sd1222@nyu.edu. You just might be glad you read it before it came on your morning newspaper.)