What's acceptable?

"Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself. During the nineteenth century, painting and sculpture were seen as extensions of the artist’s body, as evoking the presence of this body even following the artist’s death. In this sense, artist’s work was not regarded as “alienated” work—in contrast to the alienated, industrial labor that does not presuppose any traceable connection between the producer’s body and the industrial product." -Boris Groys, Marx After Duchamp, or The Artist's Two Bodies. http://e-flux.com/journal/view/178

What is acceptable ? Today, I interact with Boris's text. ("Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself...." Yesterday, I went to see art 21's latest greatest on William Kentridge. Analysis of where an experience begins began, not today. Awareness of magic's tricks did not cease the magical sensation. In the bareness and even child-like awkwardness, it was on one, first level- endearing. The sum of the cute parts made an amazing whole. And within those manufactured parts, parts very attached to the maker, leaving the process exposed, I think of Not today, I'm sitting here right now. An extension of nothing because that itself simply is. Constantly in flux and refusing to light anywhere is the thing to present as art. So much for other conundrums. Like communicating versus expressing the self.
Attachments to individuals without definition of space needed. Distance and ambiguated connections blur an awareness of time. It is about time and history. Sentimentality has no future. It is, right now, happy with what it has. Almost to the point of there being no "has". No ownership or expectations. Or ...plans. The connection at its base source, its most primary importance is in sharing creative needs. Reaction to this life is what is alive. Public Art is important.
As a phenomenon that operates in tandem with political messages that also necessitate means of communicating. Symptoms of art's needs remain separate from the space between the work and the creator. Examination of the experience becomes the space to attempt to attach anything to . Occurrences happily sprout under the banner of art, inspired and funded and sacrificing. And they happen with a vigor that is heartfelt, as much as it is banal. Or rendered banal by the strangest blur of opportunity. Information availability and the pace of the city, be that in automobiles of internet phones. The context or the muscle punch strength of a feeling is as much a blur as any extension from anything. It's all taffy made of ions now visible, like icky little bubbles compartmentalized from each other. A reason for sharing art. Now the process exposed, like Kentridge or in these words by ol' Boris.
I went to see art this weekend. I've erased references to any specific city or gallery within it. Neither experience counted on awareness of even their own process, not as curators attempting to frame their own perspective, they simply didnt satisfy the right fucking questions in the first place. I didn't even make it to the maufactured work. The person or artist, in some disembodied way was all I sensed. All I saw were their actions in the product. A human body requesting material shit.

Speaking of material shit. How about plain language ? No need for flowery bull? Let's see if i can come out from behind the bull.