William Hogarth’s crime
journalist weeps tears of sardonic laughter that turn into florins, rolling
into the newspaper magnate’s bottomless pocket. The Man himself stares away
from the congested street scene – beggars and desperate mothers squat before
ATMs, house sharks and foreign predators fight over bricks – toward his estate
on the Mornington Peninsula. “July, start of the financial year …” reads a
ribbon running from his mouth. A couple starve outside the Mock Baroque
restaurant, its masonry already cracking in the climate-changed sun. A
connoisseur snaps up copies of the ‘print within a print’ for his Armadale
hallway and investment portfolio.
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