There's some meat sandwiched discreetly in the five gajillion words in this week's New Yorker opus on loveable art loon Jeffrey Deitch.
Turns out rapacious Russians and dubious sheiks from Dubai are maybe-probably going to prop up the boiling contemporary art market, even though the economy here might currently suck. And Deitch, the wizard dealer behind giant, multimillion-dollar toy sculptures and feces spattered canvasses, is the man piquing their interests.