Ebert tried telling himself this as he watched the world around him contract, shrinking ever-steadily towards an existence comprised entirely of one bed, a sweaty dressing gown and a window, wherever he happened to be.
"Is the whole world in every room? Fuuck, I wish I'd never tried to read any philosophy."
He thought about Martin Creed... specifically he thought about an utterly incredulous display he'd witnessed once on youtube. It was as if 'The Artist' had taken a stupid-pill for effect... the effect of appearing stupid.
"Why would someone do that?"
Creed's words, when written on a page, and occasionally the warm way in which he was prone to speaking about nothingness and somethingness, had comforted Ebert in the past, but his memory of this video was a painful one. It was like the artist had become ensnared in a trap of his own making; having to appear as stupid as possible all the time in order to authenticate his 'simple' works. To insinuate some ungraspable profundity he would fein dumbfoundedness in the face of ideas as complex as "people make art." In the end though, he just seemed dumb. 'Stupid'. At least that's what Ebert thought as he tried and failed to get out of bed.
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