the new yorker discovers naked art exists, gasps dramatically

A perfectly earnest New Yorker illustration dissecting Lisa Yuskavage's nude sculptures with the solemnity of someone discovering fire. The entire composition radiates "important art conversation" energy while sitting in an uncanny dreamscape of oversized classical butts and self-serious contemporary gallery aesthetics. This is what happens when institutional critique meets Instagram gallery-brain: the result is exactly as pretentious and spiritually hollow as you'd expect.