The Brooklyn Rail

You regularly hear that art criticism has no power or value these days, that deep-pocketed collectors and blue-chip dealers set the agenda, but it seems clear that no one actually believes that—at least not completely. Over the fifteen years that I have written about art in a professional capacity, a vast public relations apparatus has sprung up to get press for artists and galleries, museums and art fairs. And though I think it’s bizarre, publicists sometimes even ask for reviews of exhibitions. Given the money that is being spent on all this, there is clearly some understanding that these words serve some purpose, however oblique. Sure, criticism may not move product like it once did, but it can still focus attention and—at its best—stir the pot.

Why do I write? I’m trying to “get people out of the house to look at art,” as Roberta Smith put it in these pages back in 2017. At the risk of being corny, I will say that spending time with art (and artists) has changed my life. It has helped me learn history, made me more curious about how other people think, and pushed me to figure out how I want to live. It has also given me thrilling and deeply satisfying experiences. I want other people to have them, too. Very early on, I interned at a museum, but I found the pace too slow. A little later, I worked at a gallery, and while I loved it, I still felt a bit restless. Most days, writing allows me to bounce all over town, on the hunt for art (and people) that are new, infuriating, strange, exciting. It’s perfect for me.

From the moment I started in this line of work, I knew it would not be a lucrative career path (or a career path at all, really), but it has other rewards. For one thing, you can travel a lot, if you can find amenable employers. You can also have a fairly unconstrained existence, intellectually and otherwise. The art world remains small. Despite the art industry’s increasing corporatization, art publications pretty much let you write what you want, I have found, and most art people remain accessible. Over time, with a little bit of persistence, you can do what you want.

At my first art writing job, in 2009, my salary was 29,000 dollars. I made it work, barely, with the help of roommates and rent stabilization. I love Lucy Lippard’s advice to young art writers: “Keep your standard of living extremely low and you can write what you want.” It’s true, but it does get a little trickier as you get older. (I just turned forty, and my wife and I have an amazing little toddler, which raises the stakes a bit.) I have been very lucky. During periods of freelancing, I’ve been able to line up assignments—and odd jobs (I did US Census work early in the pandemic)—that kept me creatively engaged and in the game. Also, I entered the job market when there were still a decent number of staff jobs at culture publications. There are fewer opportunities to break into the field today, which makes me worry about the profession’s future.

And that makes me worry about the future of art—not because I think art criticism has some huge role to play in what artists do, but because, when we’re at our best, we art writers can get eyeballs on important, glorious artworks and ideas that are being overlooked. And we can burst bubbles. I have seen it happen, over and over again. Remember Peter Schjeldahl’s one-hundred-word dismantling of Matthew Day Jackson in 2013? Poof. I admire Dave Hickey’s explanation for why he wrote about art: “I don’t want to be rich, but I want to win. I want my enemies to fall in shambles.” Words to live by. I want the artists I love to win—to have their work acquired by august museums and feted at prestigious international biennials. I want them to make money. I want them to keep going. But if nothing else, I want to invite people to see art in some new ways, to see what it does for them. Over the years, in so many ways, I think, that adds up.