It often happens that during cultural events, the public brutally reveals its true nature. The announcement of refreshments is enough for art to become a pretext, a decorative alibi. The crowd compacts, pushes, and gathers around the food as if in front of a feeding trough. Thought retreats, ethics disappear, instinct remains. Culture dissolves into basic needs.

In those moments, there is no longer any difference between an exhibition space and a place of symbolic survival. The body takes command, hunger or its vice becomes the common language. The work is ignored, tolerated, or passed by distractedly, while the priority is to occupy a position, grab, and consume. The vernissage turns into a silent trial of strength, an exercise in collective selfishness masked as sociability.

The artist chooses not to participate in this ritual. He remains distant from the banquet, observing, waiting. Being the Last at Supper is not a gesture of modesty, but of refusal. Refusal of a culture that consumes itself, standing up, in a hurry, without listening. Refusal of a system that uses food to tame the public and neutralise any possibility of conflict or critical thinking.

The Last at Supper is a statement. It is the act of someone who does not identify with the masses, who rejects the confusion between nourishment and content. It is a denunciation of the emptiness that pervades certain rituals of contemporary art, where instinct precedes reflection and consumption replaces experience.

Translated with DeepL