
“These are times that try men’s souls,” as Thomas Paine so memorably put it in December of 1776, when morale among American soldiers was at an all-time low. These are also times, right now, that require us occasionally to turn our backs on the news because what we’re reading is frightening, harrowing, and sick-making. And so this week I will bring you no more dismaying bulletins from the new administration (you can get enough of that elsewhere), but will turn instead to a subject that sends a burr up my butt every time I encounter it: bad art writing.
I don’t mean writing about bad art, but writing that bends the rules, pretends it’s smart, seems to have something to say, but in reality is often incomprehensible to the average reader. Friends here in Taos often ask me what I think of a piece of prose, generally a review or profile of an artist, generally in the local press. And generally I wind up opining succinctly: “It sucks.” But that seems unfair if I don’t offer further evaluation. So I wanted to analyze a few snippets from reviews and tell you precisely what is going wrong. I’m redacting the names of the artists, the writers, and the publications because I don’t want to seem churlish in singling these out, and in some cases I’ve not seen the art in question and am in no position to pass judgment. This is about the prose, not the subjects. The quotations from the different publications are in boldface italics. My exegesis follows in Roman type.
Taos’ dirt is sacred and bloodred. Overhead, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains ascend to the heavens and break into valleys that cradle the sun before popping its yolk into a shadow. Like all great places, it contains a dualism that splinters off into many directions. The tiny county at the northern tip of New Mexico is a place anchored in its past—both of ancestral knowledge and of settler colonialism. Spanish rancho. Century-long art haven. Forever home of the Taos Pueblo people. At 6,969 feet above sea level, the air is dry and piñon-scented. Stop to catch your breath, and you might notice animal bones poking out from the soil. Further up, sage bushes blur into a golden aspen glow.
That’s the lede* paragraph from a profile of a talented sculptor who also happens to be a friend. I’m not sure the possessive is necessary for “Taos’ dirt,” but I can tell you for sure it’s not often “bloodred,” or even near that, except when it rains or snows and the dirt on the road turns to the color of bricks. Not to be even more literal-minded, but “popping" [the sun’s] yolk” sounds awfully messy, nor do I see how it is possible for mountains to do the popping. A place cannot contain “a dualism that splinters off into many directions” because “dualism” implies two, and, well, “many” is many. For the record, I’ve never seen “animal bones poking out from the soil,” but perhaps I need a stronger prescription (surely these would stand out against the “bloodred” dirt). And it would be damn difficult for sage bushes to blur into a golden aspen glow, as far as I can recall, because there just aren’t that many golden aspens in these parts, and if there are I’ve never noticed this phenomenon of landscape shading from dull green to bright yellow. Did this writer even visit Taos?
Let’s move on to another.
Outside, it was scorching. Peak summer in Santa Fe: another year of record-setting temperatures. My steps zigzagged to dodge fallen plums fermenting on the sidewalks of Canyon Road. Less than a mile away, the Southwest Association for Indian Arts annual Indian Market was winding down its 102nd year.
Throughout the weekend, a constellation of satellite events glimmered with abundance. The gallery spaces at [two venues along Canyon Road featured Native American artists whose names and tribal affiliations are omitted to protect the innocent].
Together, these two exhibitions form a double prism, refracting the lingering white gaze of the market’s ethnographic origins into a full spectrum of Indigenous creativity. Their dual debut during Indian Market fosters a dialogue countering today’s apocalyptic cynicism. Instead, they honor histories shaping our present, offering tangible expressions of endurance and regeneration.
I’m not so sure I care that the writer had to make her way in scorching heat, avoiding messy plums on the sidewalk (tough luck, sweetheart—if you want to be a critic, be aware that the job has its hazards), but never mind. We don’t really get into big trouble until we stumble on “double prism,” which implies two (why was the “double” even necessary in this instance?) and prism, which according to the online Webster’s is “a transparent object that usually has three sides and bends light so that it breaks up into rainbow colors.” It’s the same “two versus the many” problem again. I have a rough idea of what the rest of the paragraph is trying to say, but is there not a simpler way to put this? I think the reviewer means that the annual Indian Market offers up the kind of goods that Anglos like to see and purchase, while the artists on Canyon Road are showing the real deal in “tangible expressions of endurance and regeneration.” But what the hell is “today’s apocalyptic cynicism”? I would save that one for Donald Trump’s attitude toward democracy.
When I encounter this sort of gobbledy gook in the opening of a story or review, I generally stop reading completely because I’ve lost all trust in the writer. Why suffer through more if his or her initial observations are in doubt?
But here are several paragraphs from a review in a local weekly:
[Jane Doe’s] work does not sit passively on the walls or on pedestals. It hums, it moves, it breathes.
Through March 15, [Doe’s exhibition at a gallery in town] brings together a body of work that feels less like a collection of objects and more like an unfolding mythology. [Her] paintings and sculptures do not merely depict the world; they inhabit it, shaped by the same forces that shape the land she lives on — weather, time and memory.
The surfaces bear the weight of revision, layered with the residue of past marks, past decisions, past lives. The figures that appear in them seem caught mid-transformation, shifting between states of being, as if their stories are still unfolding.
Born in Portland, Maine, in 1978 and raised in Taos, [Doe] has spent most of her life in the high desert, living and working in an off-grid home she built with her own hands on the mesa….
Her materials reflect this approach. She does not seek out supplies so much as she gathers them. Handmade willow charcoal, pressed weeds and grasses, micaceous clay pulled from the earth. The layering of these elements, both in her paintings and sculptural works, suggests a long, unfolding process — something not fixed but constantly evolving.
Her paintings are not quiet. They carry layers of revision, the accumulation of time and the remnants of past versions lingering beneath the surface. She works in a limited palette — earth tones, deep blacks and faded golds — sometimes punctuated by the sharp brightness of white or the arterial rush of red.
This is probably not so bad, even if it seems a bit over the top. My problem is that within the first few paragraphs we are told everything that the artist and her work are not….The work “does not sit passively,” it’s “not fixed but constantly evolving,” her paintings and sculptures “do not merely inhabit the world,” she “does not seek out supplies,” and “[h]er paintings are not quiet.” An awful lot of negatives. Why not tell us instead what the artist and her work are all about in a more positive sense? What it is, rather than what it’s not. I’d send this back for a rewrite.
And here’s another review from the same paper, published a couple of years ago:
Botanical illustration is an art form as old as the hills; humans have been representing plants in art for as long as they have been creating art.
Decorative use of plants in frescos and friezes, prints, carvings, ceramics or coins date back to at least ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, more than 4,000 years ago, but art historians agree that the genre of botanical art and illustration began in ancient Greece.
Pliny the Elder, who worked in the early first century AD, studied and recorded plants. He refers to Krateuas, an early physician, as the first real botanical illustrator.
Those early illustrations remained the gold standard for centuries. Only in the 18th century did botanical art become much more accurate and naturalistic. These more-detailed drawings are known as being in the Linnaean style, referring to the taxonomist Carolus Linnaeus.
The mid-18th century, through much of the 19th century, was a golden age for botanical art. By the Victorian era, the trend in botanical art was to be more decorative and less natural. Then, as photography improved, the illustration of plants became redundant and resulted in a decline in the art form itself.
This is all perfectly fine, and is an admirable précis of the history of botanical illustration, except that there was not one print or illustration in this show, and I should know because it was curated by artist Michelle Cooke and me at the Wright Contemporary in 2023. The rest of the review, credited to the staff at the paper, was simply lifted from the press release.
Again, there is nothing particularly wrong here; it’s just lazy, uninformed editing and writing. Smack some factoids from Wikipedia together with observations lifted from the p.r. and abracadabra you’ve got a perfectly good review!
I don’t mean to imply that sloppy texts are unique to the hinterlands (although I come across them in small towns more often than in national papers and magazines that are more rigorously edited). My concluding caveat to readers is simply this: Read carefully. If the words feel off, or the language fuzzy, it’s not your glasses. It’s your critical faculties coming to the rescue. Trust them.
*Lede is journalese for the first sentences or paragraph, generally of a news report.
I would love to have you take apart the incomprehensible writing in ART FORUM from several years ago.
Loved all your samples! It reminded me of a quote on the back of my studio door, the worst artist statement I have ever read...lest I ever forget:
"Streaming inspiration of the suffering of existence and the seemingly endless whirlpool we find ourselves in has yielded this visual outflow."
Makes me laugh every time.