Useful Idiots

In the past, I often wrote catalogue essays for art exhibitions, usually at the request of artists, curators, and gallerists whom I knew and appreciated. The initial approach can be tricky for both the requester and the person being asked, much like asking someone out for the first time. The fact that money changes hands further complicates things: are the sweet words one is expected to pen tokens of true love or just paid flattery? Nevertheless, when everything goes well, all parties benefit. Their cultural capital increases, and their professional or personal relationships are strengthened. It’s a feel-good exchange; endorphin levels peak, like when chimpanzees groom one another by picking ticks off their backs.

Yet, just beneath the surface, lingering questions remain. For instance, why don’t artists write these essays themselves? It’s their exhibition, after all—why ask someone else to explain it? They all had to discuss their work in art school, often defending it against criticism from teachers and peers. Isn't it odd that artists who once wrote extensive exegeses of their practice for their Master's degrees become so reticent once they enter the professional world?

These questions are somewhat rhetorical, as it's understandable that once freed from academic demands, artists might prefer to let their artworks speak for themselves. They are visual artists, not theorists or writers. If they could fully express themselves in words, they probably wouldn’t bother with oil paints that never quite dry or clays that release toxic dust. We value non-verbal arts because their materiality and sensory richness transcend language. This is why writing about them can seem foolish. Wittgenstein famously wrote, "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent," alluding to language’s inability to account for ethical, aesthetic, and spiritual experiences. And yet, this is precisely what artists ask of essay writers. Perhaps essay writers are simply the artists’ "useful idiots."

Some artists may also fear they aren’t good enough with words and that their less-than-eloquent explanations could negatively affect their standing in the eyes of gallery-goers, curators, and collectors. Indeed, one sometimes notices a sharp contrast between art critics’ highfalutin interpretations of artworks and the apparent inarticulacy of their creators. To mitigate what Duchamp called the "stupid as a painter" effect, artists rely on three strategies: The first is the "oracle approach," which entails speaking in short, cryptic sentences as difficult to interpret as the artworks they supposedly elucidate. The second is the "deadpan" method, consisting of the impassive delivery of deliberately banal explanations (Warhol was the undisputed master of this technique). The third strategy is to speak around rather than about the work, providing factual details about the circumstances of its creation and ideation while refraining from offering any interpretations.

One could argue that artists shouldn't fret about this. Contemporary hermeneutic theory suggests that the explicitly stated intentions of artists and authors should be taken with a generous pinch of salt. Post-structuralist interpreters go as far as to argue that language speaks us, not the other way around. And we are familiar with the psychoanalytic notion that the artist’s great ally, the unconscious, serves as a source of meanings they cannot fully control or direct.

Even before Freud taught us to spot artists with "mummy or daddy issues," the age-old concept of genius portrayed creators as unable to control or comprehend the forces that drove them. Poets were considered "possessed" intermediaries through whom the gods spoke. Many indigenous cultures also view creators as passive conveyors of communal sacred knowledge. When artists steeped in these traditions are queried about their works, they might just answer, “Don’t ask me, ask the Gods!” But in today’s secular world, essay writers are expected to accomplish the impossible task of bridging the gap between the artist’s reticence and the audience's inquisitiveness.

Personally, I find that I don’t fully understand the work I am supposed to explain until I have finished writing about it. Understanding doesn't precede writing but rather follows it. This might apply to other fields of knowledge, but in the arts, which lack independent verification procedures, it’s easy to deceive ourselves into thinking we understand something that has, in reality, eluded our comprehension.

One of the first catalogue essays I wrote was for a young artist, a warm and supportive friend at the time. When I presented the text to him, it was evident I had completely misunderstood his work. Nevertheless, he was delighted by what he viewed as an imaginative piece of creative writing and even decided to hang the text next to his artwork.

This kind of generosity isn't unusual. I'm sure other artists, reading my texts, have occasionally scratched their heads but decided to grin and bear it. Commissioned texts are rarely rejected, mainly for fear of causing offence, but also because the time or money to engage another writer is often lacking. While understandable, this situation is "suboptimal," to use a trendy euphemism. When an essay falls short, the writer should be compensated, and the text should be kindly declined for publication. Once, an Austrian curator shared a dilemma: a famous writer he'd commissioned for a catalogue introduction had badly misunderstood the brief, producing a very misleading essay. Should he offend a celebrity writer or proceed with a badly compromised catalogue? I left him pondering and never found out what he decided. Pro tip: If the commissioner, after reading your text, says, "This is exactly what I was expecting," it means you've screwed up.

The only times I was asked to make small changes to my texts were when I wrote something the client perceived as critical. Obviously, negative comments, no matter how mild and qualified, break a cardinal rule of commissioned exhibition introductions (catalogue essays are glorified puff pieces, albeit sometimes sincere). Yet, over the years, hints of disenchanted irony started to pop up here and there in my writing. I always tried to be gracious to those kind enough to ask me to write about them, but I am only human, and occasionally I gave in to the mischievous trickster within.

My decision to quit writing catalogue essays for solo exhibitions came many years ago when an artist for whom I had already written two texts asked for a third. I didn’t have the courage to refuse, but was put on the spot. I had already said all I could think of about this person's practice, and although it was an exhibition of new works, I struggled mightily not to repeat myself. It was painful, partly because the works were of the post-conceptual/post-minimalist variety, a genre that strains the resources of writers far better than I. I actually like their work, but didn't know why; searching my mind always yielded a variety of conflicting interpretations.

After I eventually finished the text, the artist asked me to change it. I hadn't made any ironic comments that could be interpreted as disparaging; I had simply, apparently, got it wrong. I put my foot down and told them they could either use my text exactly as written or throw it in the bin. In any case, whatever they decided, I would not charge them. I’m not sure what happened; the exhibition wasn't in my city, but I later noticed the artist still used quotes from my text to illustrate their works.

But I am an empathetic man. Making art is usually a solitary activity, and artists often receive little feedback. Reviews are few and far between, and comments from colleagues and peers are usually either laconic or tactful. You might as well ask your mum. Yet, engaging an essay writer to act as the audience's spokesperson doesn't help much. I invite artists to stop asking writers and instead wait for writers to offer to write about them. I realise this isn't common practice, but it should be encouraged.

References

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Translated by C.K. Ogden, with assistance from F.P. Ramsey. Introduction by Bertrand Russell. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., Ltd., 1922.