Art is always aimed (like a rifle, if you wish) at the
middle class. The working class has its own culture and will have no truck with
fanciness of any kind. The upper class owns the world and thus needs know no
more about the world than is necessary for its orderly exploitation. The notion
that art cuts across class boundaries to stir the hearts of hoe hand and Morgan
alike is, at best, a fiction useful to the artist, his Hail Mary. It is the
poor puzzled bourgeoisie that is sufficiently uncertain, sufficiently hopeful,
to pay attention to art. It follows (as the night the day) that the bourgeoisie
should get it in the neck.
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