There has always been fashion in art. It is likely that the painters of Lascaux sat around bitching about how everyone seemed to be using the same shade of iron oxide, and how lame that was. Things come in waves, as they should; everything simultaneously affected by the same shifting forces. Some waves are naturally born out of inevitable unseen zeitgeists, some spring from the calculated pressure of individuals seeking to get ahead. I don’t particularly like fake waves, but cannot be too hard on them since eventually they are engulfed by deeper resonances and, in time, like sunken ships act as artificial support for vibrant living reef. It is not good to worry much about what is new. Newness is overrated anyway. Fashion passes beneath the crushing weight of what is real and is eventually reduced to nothing. What persists is the unshakable certainty that what has already been done is still not enough.