Contemporary or speculative art has everything in common with the pomp and circumstance of high food, it is another qualification for those disproportionately allocated a share of the resources to the end of an affirmation of their right to have annexed the wealth, an affirmation that they are the ones who are cultured, who understand art, who understand food, an affirmation of meritocracy. It hardly needed the image of Charles Saatchi with his hands around the throat of then wife Nigella Lawson for this feeling of ownership of cultural production to be understood as the end of those patrons that have so influenced the kind of work that is championed by the establishment, to the end of the constant alienation of the general public. The university system, increasingly privatised at the expense of even the veneer of scholarship, serves to convince artists of the redundancy of work that can belong to the domestic in favour of the spectacles that are favoured by the oligarchy (for they can only be afforded by them). For every other working artist beneath the stratosphere of Biennales and institutional shows, galleries that dilute subject matter and turn works into suitable investment pieces for architectural monoliths there is a constant struggle with opportunities that are impressive for insiders that amount to a pittance in terms of remuneration for their labour. This work is one such incarnation of alienation. It is scab labour.