The Brooklyn Rail

Several years ago on a panel, the critic Saul Ostrow made this observation: “No one says when they grow up, they will become a critic.” (He denies that he said it, by the way.) But it sounds right to me. Certainly, I never heard anyone say that as a child nor did I say it. But of course, there are always exceptions. And though we might not have said that then—who even knew what a critic was?—some of us indeed grew up to become critics, journalists, and art writers of one stripe or another, the designation increasingly baggy, adaptable, and usually bolstered by more sustaining side hustles if you didn’t happen to have a trust fund lurking in the background.

What is an art critic today, then? What is the role of art criticism, and how do critics survive? What is criticism’s (and the critic’s) impact on the work and career of artists and the culture at large? And, shifting to the perspective of the critics and a question much less often asked, what impact does their choice of career have on their lives, and why choose such a non-lucrative vocation/avocation that is ironically, tauntingly so privilege-adjacent?

While, again, there are always exceptions, it is never going to be enriching (unless your review is optioned for a film or a limited streaming series, or you are not hampered by conflicts of interest). Most art critics and art writers know that. So, why do they do it? As the contemporary art world in the past decades has changed from an audaciously, often boisterously bohemian, indie-minded, idealistic model to one that is academicized, professionalized, or highly corporatized and market-driven, how has that affected critics?

This came up in a conversation about the state of criticism over a post-opening dinner in the early fall that Barbara A. MacAdam and I attended. Phong Bui, the publisher of the Brooklyn Rail, also present, weighed in, heatedly, emphatically declaring that writers and critics are not acknowledged often enough for their vital role in the cultural ecosystem. Without their response to an exhibition, say, it might as well never have happened, the art forgotten. The upshot is this issue which we were invited to guest edit. Barbara and I asked the following dozen plus writers/critics for their stories, snippets from bracing, complicated lives that too often depend upon skillful juggling, navigating, negotiating—and luck.  

This is what they said.

—Lilly Wei, Guest Co-Editor

 

As for my own thoughts on the travails and pleasures of being a critic today, and most any day, I am forced to admit that it’s an addiction, subservient to the agony of deadlines and the ability to know whether you can magically solve the problem of beginning and ending a piece—until you do.

Money, it seems, is a thought, but more an afterthought, even though it’s necessary for survival. Many of us, I’m embarrassed to say, would simply pay to be done with a piece. Nevertheless, write we must.

I recall in the nineties and thereabouts attending meetings of the International Association of Art Critics where, whatever the issues we intended to address, the focus most often devolved into a kvetch-fest.

“It’s not fair!” our critics vociferously proclaimed. And certainly, it mostly wasn’t and still isn’t. Publications often didn’t and don’t pay sufficiently, if at all, for the efforts of their contributors. And adding to the problem were the hours our members spent pondering—that is, arguing loudly—how they should seek recompense? Would it be best to publicize the delinquent perpetrators? Sue them? Should they join forces and report them to labor relations organizations, which they would then have to pay to join?

True, there have been moments when, parallel to fluctuations in the art market and the proliferation of new websites and podcasts, and the release of a small number of new print magazines, writers’ fees edged up, but then, more recently, the fees dropped—sometimes way down—again.

So, more to the point, why do we all keep writing? But we did, and do. We’re used to it. It’s the new/old normal. And it’s what we do.

I don’t recall that we were as concerned back then with the effect our writing would have on the artists and art world at large, as we were with the indignity of our own plight. At the same time, I recall as an editor how some writers would turn down assignments on the basis of meager pay, but would volunteer to write for no fee when the assignment seemed sufficiently prestigious. The real point, to many peoples’ surprise, is that having an audience that esteems you and your work is, perhaps, sufficient unto the day. Even though it’s not fair.

—Barbara A. MacAdam, Guest Co-Editor