John McDonald, ‘An art critic’s retrospective’, The Sydney Morning Herald, 03.06.99
Reflecting on 16 years as a critic, the new head of Australian art at the National Gallery fires a parting shot at painters with bloated egos and curators without taste.
The critic: a cold fish? a flamboyant dilettante? a failed artist looking for revenge on the world? a whore of public opinion? a misfit? an opportunist? There are as many cliches as there are critics, and none of them sums up the full complexity of the profession. A critic leads his or her life in the open, drawing no line between private opinion and public pronouncement. It can be a glamorous occupation but also an endurance test.
After spending most of my working life as a professional art critic, I am moving on to become Head of Australian Art at the National Gallery of Australia. Yet it would be a shame to lay aside the critic’s rod without undertaking a modest retrospective of 16 years in the trade. This will necessarily be more personal in tone than the average art column, if only because the authorial “voice” in that column is a kind of invention that is refined over a long period. One creates a character who strides onto a stage, week after week, for the benefit of regular readers who feel they recognise him as a trusted friend or a reliable villain. Either way, one tries to avoid being predictable while remaining philosophically consistent. One strives to be honest but not “ruthlessly” honest, since most of the poor or disappointing shows are best left alone. There is little point in attacking a struggling artist in the mainstream press, although there should be no mercy for those artists, curators and institutions that patronise the public intelligence with their dull but vainglorious activities.
Before I go too far, it must be noted that criticism is highly vulnerable to negative stereotypes. Think of George Sanders playing the theatre critic, Addison de Witt, in Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s film All About Eve. “I have lived in the theatre as a Trappist monk lives in his faith,” he pronounces.” In it I toil not, neither do I spin. I am a critic and a commentator. I am essential to the theatre - as ants to a picnic, as the boll weevil to a cotton field.” A cynical, self-styled powerbroker, de Witt barely distinguishes between the people around him and the characters he encounters in a play. As a critic, he stands outside the stream of life, coldly assessing his subjects in terms of good or bad form.
Consider, too, Wilfred Sheed’s novel The Critic, the story of another successful critic whose “corrosive talent” makes him incapable of normal human relationships. Entrapped by his calling, he finds life less tractable than art. It is hardly an original concept, but the book is a valuable anthology of received ideas about critics. Mostly very mean ideas - as though this story is a novelist’s revenge on his reviewers. If only Sheed had been lucky enough to be born in Australia, where the words ”an acclaimed new Australian novel” have the ring of tautology. Every new Australian novel seems to be acclaimed, signifying a widespread failure of critical nerve.
It is far too easy to believe the cliches about “destructive” critics because the worst critics dispense only praise, presenting their readers with a cosy, sanitised view of culture. It is a vision of a world shaped by arts bureaucrats and publicists, in which every worthy artist - be he or she ever so young, so poor, so racially or sexually oppressed - creates a masterpiece.
Perhaps the ultimate extension of this attitude is North Korea, where literature is produced industrially in praise of the head of state. So long as the work flatters the leader, it cannot fail to be accepted. In laid-back Australia, it is more a matter of pushing the right buttons to capture the fashionable sensations and political preoccupations of the moment. Even though government subsidies have reduced the financial risks of publishing new novelists, there remains the heartening possibility of failure. Artistic failure cannot be alleviated by injections of cash, and it is the critic’s responsibility to judge the success or failure of a work of art, clearly stating the reason for each judgement.
In the field of visual arts criticism, it is rare indeed for a critic to accept the responsibility of judgement. A large number of so-called reviews are nothing but press releases that have spent a few minutes in the microwave. When the critic does speak his or her mind, it may have little to do with the exhibition he or she is supposedly reviewing. Occasionally, it seems that an elaborate literary edifice has been constructed for the specific purpose of saying nothing. There is even a form of review which is a coded job application: “Please recognise my loyal support for your exhibition, and consider me for a curatorship, a publication, etc.” How may exhibitions are described as “major”, “important”, “significant”, even when the critic goes on to express a few guarded doubts? Hardly anyone will stick his or her neck out with an unfashionable opinion, although the opinion may be read between the lines by those in the know. In other words, while writers may harbour well-defined opinions, they are often reluctant to express them. I will resist the temptation of naming individuals, since I am trying to identify syndromes rather than scapegoats.
It is not always possible to talk in generalities when I consider some of the appalling behaviour I have witnessed from my fellow critics, On one occasion I found myself booked to speak at a forum with a writer who had routinely insulted my work at various interstate conferences to which I had not been invited. As soon as I mentioned his writing, he got up and ran out of the room, declaring it was all a set-up! In fact, he strode into the toilets, imagining it was the back door, and had to reappear some minutes later. He made his ultimate escape by passing through the ranks of an audience who jeered and booed.
There is another well-known critic who has specialised in telling people that my work is all “plagiarism”, although she is unable to cite any evidence in support. These comments, which she has wisely refrained from immortalising in print, have been intended to inflict maximum damage. So far as I can see, the motivation is nothing more than petty jealousy.
One might say that such bizarre or despicable actions are functions of human nature, not the critical profession. Yet critics have a special responsibility to tell the truth, and should always be prepared to stand up for their opinions. In this regard, I was struck by a recent article by the London Evening Standards’s outspoken critic, Brian Sewell, who claimed: “Throughout the two decades of my life as an art critic, I have thought others of the ilk feeble, compliant, ignorant and embarrassingly uncertain. We need fresh blood.”
Sewell was talking about the British art critics, but his comments apply equally well to Australia - especially to that legion of part-time critics who write appreciative drivel for art magazines and exhibition catalogues. As for the “fresh blood”, in all my years in newspapers hardly anyone ever sent me some of their published work, asked for an opinion and expressed a desire to become a critic. The exception is Sebastian Smee, and he is now writing regular art columns for the Herald. The dearth of would-be critics has not been helped by a growing number of courses offering to teach art criticism as a specialised subject, with the prize going to the Victorian College of the Arts for proposing a Graduate Diploma in Art Criticism. I suspect that the result of such a diploma would be to put critics on the same level of abject conformity that characterises curators of contemporary art. Those with diplomas would see it as a personal insult when someone less “qualified” was preferred for a regular critics’ job. But credentials are useless without the nous to back them up, and I’m not convinced this can be taught.
I suspect that good art critics are shaped by temperament, experience, wit and intuition, not by academic degrees. It also helps to have a mentor and Terence Maloon played that role for me, even though he may disown my opinions nowadays. Critics are not that different from artists, who may learn little at art school but go on to develop highly original vision. On the other hand, there are legions of professional young artists churned out by the colleges who last but a year or two in the game before seeking more gainful employment. In criticism, as in art, the stayers will not be those with the nicest diplomas, but those who have something to say.
If art schools want to produce critics, their best option is to provide a well-rounded history and theory course that gives the student a sense of artistic tradition and encourages the growth of lateral thinking. Roger Scruton once marvelled at those Logical Positivists who entertain “no views whatsoever” on aesthetics, politics, morality or religion, yet still call themselves philosophers. It is just as puzzling how some art writers may have only the most glancing acquaintance with literature, music, history, science or philosophy, and imagine they have a mastery of their subject.
Naturally, it is much easier to sustain this illusion if one mixes only with a small, agreeable peer group, disdaining the uncouth advances of the general public. I have always found such cliqueish snobbery, as practised by certain sections of the art world, to be profoundly distasteful. Surely a critic should have nothing to do with these smug bores, but a lot of writers are apparently terrorised by the prospect of being barred from some ultra-chic club. False seriousness is met with meek submission, not the contempt it deserves. Bloated egos are allowed to keep inflating until they reach zeppelin-like proportions and sometimes suffer similar fates.
I share a birthday with Hans Christian Andersen, who wrote The Emperor’s New Clothes - a tale that was invoked with incalculable frequency whenever members of the general public wrote to me about their experiences of contemporary art. In many cases it is hard to contradict these views, but the great danger is that the viewer becomes equally cynical about each and every latter-day art work. He or she will simply stop looking at such works, will case visiting exhibitions and giving artists the benefit of the doubt. If public museums refuse to think critically about contemporary art, their audiences will do the job for them and withdraw their support. This is precisely what has happened with Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art, which now faces a financial blowout of more than $1 million.
It often happens that the critic acts as a surrogate conscience for institutions that refuse to believe they could ever be less than perfect. If attendances decline, the museum authorities presume - with a wistful sigh - that members of the public are merely philistines who do not appreciate the riches that have been set before them. LIke disciples of some far-fetched religious cult, they look forward to the day when the masses will see the light and come flocking through their doors, seeking instruction. In the meantime, It is only proper that their noble efforts be supported with constant injections of taxpayers’ money. This high-handed attitude has even been rampant at the MCA, an institution which has had to raise 95 per cent of its own funds. Indeed, it beggars belief that a museum which is far more dependent on public support than any of its peers can be so contemptuous of public taste.
The critic should not turn a blind eye to such abuses, or be intimidated into providing support for hopeless causes. Looking back over my career, I realise how important it has been to adopt an adversarial role in the face of art-world complacency. Even though damning reviews were relatively scarce, they are always better remembered than positive ones - despite the fact that they made absolutely no impact on the elite, arrogant attitudes that were my primary target.
This makes me feel that if I had to state a critical credo, it would be hard to go past the lines from Virgil that Sigmund Freud placed on the title page of The Interpretation of Dreams: “Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo” (“If I cannot bend the higher powers, I will raise hell”). More prosaically, there is a line by Kingsley Amis: “If you can’t annoy anyone, there is little point in writing.”
Those who were most annoyed by my efforts, if angry letters are any indication, were the curators of contemporary art exhibitions who received uncomplimentary reviews. Even more galling for them was the fact that most of these letters were never published - giving rise to the claim that the newspaper was trying to “protect” its dastardly critic. The truth is that few of these invectives were actually printable - being longwinded, libellous and devoid of arguments. There were times when I suggested such letters should be printed (since they indicted their authors so effectively), and even sent some to James Baker in Brisbane to publish in his Museum of Contemporary Art newsletter. But the writer’s mangling of the language was too much for most editors and sub-editors. I remember showing a furious letter from an eminent professor of fine arts to one of the Herald subs. She read it in silence, wrote 2/10 at the bottom of the page, and handed it back.
Whatever sins may be attributed to newspaper critics, they are models of clarity compared with most of the writers who contribute essays to contemporary art catalogues. All too often, the essayist is also the curator of the exhibition, and the garbled nature of the prose reflects an arbitrary selection of works.
While there are some excellent curators in Australia, they tend to work in fields such as prints and drawings, Aboriginal art, decorative arts and oriental art. In a specialised subject, a conscientious curator is able to develop his or her knowledge and expertise to good effect. On the other hand, in the domain of contemporary art, it is a free-for-all, since there are - almost by definition - few historical standpoints by which quality can be judged, and few incentives to make those judgements. The frenetic, ever-changing nature of the work induces curators to veer between wildly incompatible extremes. If they could be said to have any taste at all, it is heavily influenced by social opportunities - the visits to chic galleries, international art fests, glitzy survey shows, and so on. Too often they seem to feel that the ugliest, stupidest, most incompetent work must necessarily be the best - if only because it challenges so many tenets of conventional taste.
The words “good” and “bad” do not exist in these curators’ aesthetic vocabulary; instead, they say “radical” and “conservative”. Naturally, whatever is “radical” is considered extremely important while more “conservative” work cannot be tolerated for a second. At its most ridiculous, this creates a willingness to value the worst installations more highly than any traditional style of painting or sculpture. The abiding wish is that art must be new and different, but the result is a smothering uniformity as every curator (around the world, it must be said) buys almost identical work. Newness itself is rarely more than skin-deep, since a large percentage of contemporary pieces are nothing more than recycled versions of works that were made in the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s. A thin icing of irony or “criticality” passes for originality, if only because originality per se is tacitly considered impossible.
There are curators of contemporary art who speak in strings of cliches and buzzwords. They parrot the pompous, pseudo-theoretical platitudes that some artists use to characterise their own work. They will interpret 20 years of imaginative sterility as a mark of integrity, and abhor an artist who takes a simple pleasure in painting the landscape. Self-conscious kitsch is greeted as high art, and anything that has taken time, skill and labour is dismissed as craft. If one says, “Surely the public don’t want to see stuff like this?”, they will reply: “I think your underestimating the public, John.” In their minds, the public secretly wants to be just like them.
When one points out that a catalogue essay is badly written, confused, full of jargon and pretentious references of dubious relevance (I am still trying to fathom what Dionysius the Areopagite tells us about Brazilian neo-concrete art), this is seen as proof of the critic’s anti-intellectual bias. The case is never developed, and not only because such essays are impossible to defend. I have come to believe that some essayists feel that a piece of writing can only be of genuine intellectual value if it is incomprehensible - even to the writer. If it is easily readable, it will be called “populist”. On the other hand, there are essayists who confuse their institutional power - as Grand Poobah in some museum - with their intellectual authority. But a job is bestowed on someone, while intellectual respect must be earned. It is exactly the same for those artists who believe they are so important that their work must always be given preferential treatment. Vanity puts an impregnable barrier between these self-appointed gurus and the every-day world. To support their illusions they may draw on a pool of willing sycophants who are too lazy, stupid or shallow to develop their own opinions, and too timid to contradict an art-world bigwig.
In the face of such institutionalised mediocrity, the critic must be a fearless sceptic. Yet most critics are little better than fellow travellers. The much-maligned Giles Auty, who seems to be the art world’s idea of a free kick, is at least an oppositional voice who does not subscribe to the long list of imaginary items that “can’t be said”. This form of self-censorship is depressingly common, and it robs the critic of his or her credibility. A critic who feels that prestigious exhibitions cannot be freely criticised will be more likely to attack small-scale shows at less fashionable venues. At its worst, I have seen critics who will genuflect to a dreary installation by some avant-garde superstar, then use the razor on an aspiring artist in a commercial gallery.
Now, in taking up a museum job in Canberra, I hear people saying how important it is to enter such a post from outside the institutions. “Beware the public service mentality!” is the constant catchcry. But if the National Gallery of Australia had wanted a career bureaucrat, it would never have offered the job to a critic. I know that curators and gallery administrators have their own lists of things that “can’t be said”, and not simply because of public service confidentiality clauses.
Yet working at the National Gallery is not like joining ASIO or the foreign service, since it is part of the museum’s responsibilities to provide leadership and stimulate debate. The NGA must be a place where all shades of opinion can be freely expressed and evaluated. It must put a premium on being able to communicate and co-operate with State and regional galleries, and with international museums.
However, this does not mean that every convention and every reputation should meet with unquestioning acceptance. In this, I hope that a critical approach has a relevance that outlives art criticism.
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