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In 1989, Maurizio Cattelan vacated the premises. He simply closed the gallery and put up a sign: Torno subito, or “Be back soon.” Now, twelve years later, he has a promise to make. After his Guggenheim retrospective, “All,” this is it. No more art for him. He will give up art once and for all, and it is the subject of a much longer review of what I call slacker art—in my latest upload, which also gathers in an earlier review of another slacker, Francis Alÿs.

Oh, and did I say that in between Cattelan has left his share of art objects? And I mean a lot of objects. Well over a hundred were suspended in midair, through January 22, from scaffolding hung from the Frank Lloyd Wright oculus itself (and I should have told you about it in time for you to go, but this had first to appear in different form in Artillery magazine). They include the life-size wax figures that earned him outrage, admiration, and above all attention—like a boyish Hitler (yes, him) kneeling in prayer or supplication, President Kennedy in an open coffin, and the pope felled by a meteorite. And why not? “All” comes as close as physically possible to everything that he has ever exhibited (and I would have told you about it sooner, but portions of this review had first to appear in Artillery magazine).

Cattelan has made a career of flattering people, by reminding them of their piety or their wit. It assures him of proper outsider status, as a one-man assault on the establishment and on art. It assures them of proper insider status, as guardians of both institutions and art. Not a bad recipe for success, just as for the Young British Artists or for Jeff Koons in curating another wealthy collector’s cavemen and car wrecks. Cattelan is good at the mind games, too, and I mean that as a compliment. Take the mind games of his retrospective now.

On the one hand, he has already given up making art. The curators, Nancy Spector and Katherine Brinson, need not exhibit new work for the occasion or even make selections. The ramps and ordinary exhibition spaces lie empty, except for wall text at the start and a few hard but elegant benches. On the other hand, he has created an installation—a brand new and thoroughly site-specific work of art. It ascends the rotunda like nothing since Matthew Barney did so as performance, and it appeals to the same people who saw Barney’s ego and excess as liberating. It wrenches old work out of context, whether in chronology or in space, while also giving it a new and changing context as viewers ascend the ramp themselves.

Make no mistake: the wow factor is real, in the dozens of large objects, obvious jokes, and insider references. They include a sprawling photo of the Hollywood sign, just in case one missed the point. Cattelan has a special fondness for taxidermy, like the pigeons perched on the scaffolding or the horse bearing the sign INRI. Mostly, though, this is still the kid from the streets of Padua playing with toys. He who retires from art with the most toys wins.

The air of death in the toy store says something regardless. Museums are giving trashy spectacle its due, just as mainstream critics like Roberta Smith are turning against it and Europe is coping, badly, with its economy. Maybe this time Cattelan will keep his promise, although I doubt it. Part of me hopes he will. Either way, though, installations like his will still have a place, but their central moment will have passed, and a Harlem gallery has already faked his passing. That marble slab could serve as a final scoreboard and a memorial.