New York art critic Jerry Saltz is one of the few critic voices among the art critics. From his column in The Village Voice, Saltz punches whatever or whoever he doesn’t like, speaking out and taking no bullshit. He is a real art critic in a corporate art world that cares not for authenticity and dissenting voices.
A recent article for the Voice had him focused on the nature of the art critic. Taking questions from Frieze magazine on the "de-skilling of art criticism" and "our post-critical era", Saltz goes on to accuse art criticism of being too elevated in its language and not critical enough. He is right, but by focusing on the lameness affecting many critics today, he avoids treating the real problem posed by Frieze magazine: “our post-critical era”.
What Frieze means by "our post-critical era" is simply the current state of art criticism: not only that critics are not critical, but specially art criticism in general is devalued, unused, unread, ineffective.
Dead.
And when you’re dead, what if the reviews are not sharp enough? We art critics don't count. Nobody reads us, and those who read us are not important anymore, or never were (gallery-goers, art-lovers, struggling artists, friends and family). Dealers, curators, museum directors, artists, power figures- all these are the ones counting today. A written word on the art world today? Who cares? Does anyone think Glenn Lowry will reconsider his next step at MoMA after reading a Saltz, Kimmelman or LeMieux-Ruibal piece critic of his management?
A stand on an art fair with cool music and hot chicks is what people pay attention to nowadays. Robert Hughes put it very clear in a statement for Art & Auction a few months ago:
"Criticism has come to matter less and less in the great scheme of things. To talk about the power of the critic today is like talking about the power of a beekeeper. It's pretty ridiculous".
It's not only that many critics are not critic, just descriptive. There are Michael Kimmelmans and Roberta Smiths and Jerry Saltzes who sting and shout and fight with their words. And? Nothing happens. No one cares. Power brokers may read it, but they'll dismiss it. It is not like the Bob Woodward of the art critics will create a Watergate on the Getty, MoMA or LACMA.
We are ignored, or anesthetized.
Kimmelman panned so bad the "Greater New York" concoction in The New York Times with an already-famous "Youth and the Market" title, and you know what? They had it on display at the PS1 front desk. The critical critique, the real art criticism, exhibited- tamed and stripped of its power.
I am publishing long reports on Young New York Art and the Art Market in Lapiz magazine in Spain. They're critical, negative, enraged. Artists and friends come to me and say how much they like to see the bubbling frenzied fake art world exposed.
And? Who cares? If any of the important people read me, it was on their way to Art Basel Miami Beach. Parties, more parties, money, dealers, glamour, youth, looks, sex, plastic surgery...
"Art criticism". Excuse me. We're losers. We're writing for the family and fans, and we all know or should know it.
Even the locked-upon-itself community of art critics is isolated, not only from the art world and the real world out there somewhere, but inside itself, where critics hate each other, ignore any piece authored by others and refuse to consider any view out of that one they penned and deem brilliant.
But we're all so happy with our onanist exercises of futile closet pleasures.
