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There’s an idea that refuses to stay neatly inside any art-history timeline: the belief that art is bigger than the category we name it with. In practice, it’s always been messy—but now, thanks to the long shadow of Marcel Duchamp, the old boundaries between artistic disciplines don’t hold the same way they once did. Duchamp said it plainly, with a mischievous honesty that still cuts: he would have “wanted to work” but felt, deep down, “enormously lazy.” He didn’t treat art as a burden or a career treadmill. He treated it as a way of living—each second, each breath—something that “is inscribed nowhere,” neither purely visual nor purely cerebral. A kind of constant euphoria. That’s not laziness. It’s refusal. A refusal to pretend that art must look a specific way, behave like a specific institution, or be evaluated by a narrow set of rules. Duchamp didn’t just shift art—he shifted expectations. The consequence is bigger than style: it’s about permission...