Kant like art

The critic, Ms. De Gustibus, has been asked by the journal, Art Works, to produce a review of the new show at Gallery Ouden Art in Chelsea, New York. Ms. De Gustibus must therefore provide her editor with a summary review, making the object of her attendance at the opening not a theoretical discourse with the works shown, but criticism as an art, that is an attempt to put thought to words within the limits of her own artifact making- ink on paper. Ms. De Gustibus has much to dispute in the artifacts on the walls but finds a couple of the pieces beautiful. She gazes at them for some time, despite the jostling and socializing crowds, moved to try to understand what she sees and so very much appreciates.

Over a glass of cheap Chardonnay, Ms. De Gustibus has an unsuccessful conversation with one of the artists as to what inspired him to produce this work she finds beautiful and how he did so. He also tells her that he is teaching a workshop at the famous Fabula Art School where he places a painting at the front of the room and tells the students to produce their own drawing for the day. Despite his banal tone and inane teaching method, she is reminded of Kant’s artistic genius who cannot explain what he does but only offer it as an example to others. It seems less genius-like in person. Concerned about what she is going to write for this review, Ms. De Gustibus returns to the blank face of her flat screen monitor besides which she has framed the degree that provided her with the knowledge to consider such works of art.

She refers to different texts in developing her arguments about each work, every show, and all the artists she reviews. Ms. De Gustibus is generally well respected in her field as a person of conscious good taste whose reviews are considerate explorations of the works and always well written. After a long night of typing, Ms. De Gustibus has been able to describe the works she found beautiful and present them within constructs that others might understand in viewing the art. She has offered a witty discussion of the event and the artists that by all accounts she deems successful. Her editor does too and pronounces her a genius on a deadline!

Ms. De Gustibus is an example of Kant’s genius as much as those who inspire her, whose work she sees at the gallery. She must work hard to produce her own criticism, as an art object, and so works through the night developing her language to beautifully express the beauty she has seen. Criticism as an art is not an easy task, and observing recent art reviews shows that it is rarely done in this modern world. But this paper has been merely suggesting that criticism can be an art, and at the very least can aim to be.

The Written Portrait

When Vanessa Bell read her sister, Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse, she marveled at the ode to their mother Woolf had produced in Mrs. Ramsey. Her letter of May 3, 1927 is touching to read as she describes feeling as if their mother had come off the page. Their father too.

Vanessa Bell was a painter who had studied at the Royal Art School but, like many of the women of the Bloomsbury group, did not propel her efforts to greater fame than the occasional notice they naturally received. Married to the art critic, Clive Bell, she also had an affair with the art critic and professor Roger Fry whose portrait she sketched and was used as the cover for the first edition of Virginia Woolf's biography after his death. Vanessa Bell's letters portray her warmth to all, and her regular concern for Virginia Woolf's health.

Despite the many portraits that she painted, in her letter to her sister, she writes, "so you see as far as portrait painting goes, you seem to me to be a supreme artist." What a wonderful statement to make to a little sister who occasionally envied the language spoken by a circle that largely focused on the fine and decorative arts.

Vanessa Bell does permit herself, however, also to laugh at the idea that Lily Briscoe, the artist of the novel, would place damp cloths on her paintings to keep them wet. Virginia Woolf could be wrong too.