Writing about art is a lot like writing about the air at the mountain top after you’ve been there, gone told that, and now, when writing, of necessity, you’re no longer up there and it’s no longer hard to breathe: It’s hard to do well and when done well it doesn’t measure up to the thingness of the thing in question.
Here I’ll only say that though Oscar Wilde isn’t right to say that art criticism is a loftier art than art itself, art criticism is only interesting when it comes at you in the form and content of art, itself, himself, herself. And so the trouble redoubles.
Damn.
anartism 