One of the worst things about the COVID-19 pandemic (apart from even typing those words) is the empowerment so many people felt in commenting on their baptismal dip into that great ontological swamp of representation: screen culture. Streamed gigs with visuals on par with watching a special indie section of Rage music videos in 1999. Opening paragraphs pithily pointing out the uncanny connectivity of a Zoom call—on par with your grandparents opening a YouTube link for the first time. And maybe the worst: galleries keeping the flame of art alive by porting their agitating discontents online—to be viewed by art-types who have Instagram accounts but couldn’t tell you the difference between CSS and HTML-5.