Patricia Bickers: Galleries will pay for a “puff,” but they won’t pay for a critical article

Interviewed by: Nevenka Šarčević

The constant highlighting of the loss of criticism has prompted Patricia Bickers, long-time editor of Art Monthly, the leading British journal for contemporary art and criticism, to conduct a thorough analysis of this phenomenon. In the context of the emerging changes and current circumstances surrounding art and criticism, she perceives the potential for the development of critical thinking and expresses confidence in the role and significance of criticism today. This is revealed in her book The Ends of Art Criticism, which served as the basis for the conversation below. [1]However, this is not the sole topic of discussion. In addition to exploring various aspects of writing about art, such as the phenomena of promotional writing and “applied theory,” we also discuss the journal and its editorial policy at Art Monthly, the relationship to art in both the British and broader contexts, art education, and touch upon local New Art Practices. Naturally, we address several other themes as well. Patricia Bickers’ biography highlights her teaching experience at St. Martin’s School of Art, Goldsmiths’ College in London, and the Ruskin School of Drawing at the University of Oxford. She is currently the senior lecturer in the history and theory of art at the University of Westminster. She served as a jury member for the Turner Prize in 2001 and the Northern Art Prize in 2009. She is the author of The Brit Pack: Contemporary British Art, The View from Abroad, published in 1995.

How did you start, and what was your starting point in getting involved with art and criticism? I know that you have studied in Florence…

Believe it or not, I originally studied art history, specialising in Trecento Italian art. While doing research in Florence, I visited the Biennale in Venice and became excited about contemporary art. Although I had studied postwar American art at university, I knew very little about contemporary art.  A few years later, I met Lynne Cooke, who went on to become the director of the DIA Art Foundation in New York, and I asked her how she came to write art criticism, and she told me to “Just do it.”

In your book, The Ends of Art Criticism you point out that “criticism, like art, is most productive when it is perceived to be in crisis, that is to say when it is both challenged and challenging rather than entrenched and defensive. The time to worry is when criticism is not perceived to be in crisis, when there is consensus.” I’m glad to have a chance to speak about this important topic, especially at a time when there is widespread lamentation regarding criticism and its endurance. However, it seems that, through your book, criticism simply changes its role, if I may simplify. Your perspective on art criticism is refreshing. How did that happen, and what are the implications of it?

I’ve been teaching and writing for 40 years and much has changed in that time. To communicate effectively, you must adapt. Criticism is a two-way conversation, and that interaction is essential. Before we publish features, for instance, we engage in long discussions between ourselves and with writers, which I find stimulating. This constant exchange keeps me engaged. I can’t understand the idea of the critic as an outside authority figure. We’re all involved in criticism. Change is inevitable, but that doesn’t mean either abandoning core ethical values, or being unable to at least appreciate if not wholly engage with all forms of art. Judgment is part of the process, but it’s not the end goal. I think of John Baldessari ‘s phrase “This, not that”— you recognize not only when you don’t connect with art but also that others can connect where you cannot, and I learn from that every day. I use the term ‘conversation’ rather than the more forma; term ‘discourse’. A conversation involves direct interaction, where interruptions are welcome and ideas evolve. It’s a two-way process where participants can challenge each other.

But how do we foster this conversation? Indeed, sometimes it’s hard. Despite having a variety of digital platforms now, it can be challenging. Staying away from banality is a constant struggle.

Yes. Of course, you need a platform. Art Monthly has been mine. I started as a contributor, then joined the staff in 1989, becoming the editor in 1993. Although the magazine was well-established it – it was founded in 1976 and was supported by a grant from the Arts Council of Great Britain, as it then was – it had a very small audience at the time I joined it. I felt that it should not depend entirely on a grant – if a magazine can’t sell, it shouldn’t exist. We changed by listening to people, to our writers who would suggest things to us, and I learned a lot from my students who pointed me in new directions. Initially, I was almost left alone at Art Monthly because the editor spent half the year in Australia where he’d founded Art Monthly Australia (which is quite separate from AM UK), and the publisher, who was American, also went back to the US periodically. I was surprised to find, for instance, that the magazine hadn’t covered new developments like the Freeze exhibitions organised by Damien Hirst while still a student at Goldsmiths. Despite what we might now think about Hirst himself now and the s0-called Young British Artists generation, they were the most exciting thing happening in London in the 1980s, yet the magazine didn’t cover them. In a way, I found a platform, and then we changed the platform to be more inclusive. We began to grow together. The new writers, and later new people working with me, began to connect with a younger and more diverse readership – we grew up together.

What should an art critic consider when choosing a platform?

In choosing a platform you will have to make all kinds of ethical decisions. Would you like to write for a magazine that promotes or critiques art? Would you rather write what in England in the 19th century we used to call “puff pieces”, or would you rather really engage with your readers in a conversation about more challenging art? You might not have a large audience initially, but you can build one. Ask yourself what kind of art really engages you. If you merely follow trends, you may forget what initially excited you about contemporary art. So, you have to make some choices.

Some people prefer to create their own platform, and they can do that on social media. But if you choose to write for a print magazine like I do, it offers longevity and a role in creating a history. So, unlike blogging, it comes with a big responsibility. I embrace all that. I take responsibility for my work and recognize that I have responsibilities to my co-writers, co-workers, and readers. It’s empowering. It’s not a limitation; it helps you negotiate the kind of art and issues you want to engage with and those that you can’t or won’t engage with. For example, when I was younger, many critics were on a retainer with galleries, paid to write. That was a legitimate career choice. I don’t know if it’s offered now. Many famous writers were also on gallery payrolls. That’s a choice I didn’t want to make. There are many options, but each one involves a decision. If you choose a platform outside the “puff industry,” you won’t make money, but in the long run, you will have more influence.

Today, there are more critics and writers producing promotional texts — but where does all this writing lead? Is it merely about promotion? In Croatia, with the rise of new galleries and the decline of art criticism in the press, it seems that promotion often takes precedence over real critique, and many of our colleagues actively participate in this trend. What is your view on that? And how much does it influence our judgments about art based on market aspects?

Art is a commodity with a market, and promotional literature has always existed and critics have been, or have allowed themselves to be co-opted by the market. People need to make a living. Many of our writers were and are artists or began as artists, and supported themselves by part-time teaching in what were then independent art colleges. In the 1960s, 70s, even up to the mid-80s, you could do two days teaching, two days in the studio or whatever you wanted to do, or write. That’s no longer possible. In the late 1980s during Margaret Thatcher’s premiership art colleges, especially in London were forced to close or be absorbed into polytechnics which were then granted university status. Their new status came at the price of a total loss of autonomy, while art students were forced into ill-fitting academic straitjackets. Then, in 1998, Tony Blair’s government brought in tuition fees, saddling generations of students with debt. So today we live in a much more precarious society. I can’t blame anyone for doing promotional writing.

It is possible to write both critical and promotional pieces perhaps, but once you write promotional content you might find yourself taking the easy route and ploughing the same lucrative furrow. Part of a critic’s role is to introduce new ideas and art to the public, creating connections with new audiences and building awareness around lesser-known artists with no market profile. But if you’re only looking in the same place –  the market – you are failing in this role. As a critic. you have such a valuable role to play: effectively you are asking readers ‘have you looked at this rather than that?’ Critics are part of the audience too, but they get to preview art, which is a huge privilege and very rewarding, if not monetarily speaking. But you still need to make a living, and so I supported myself in various ways but mostly by teaching for over 35 years, while also editing and writing for the magazine, something which would be much more difficult today. It was a struggle, but in the end, every experience feeds into each other, and possibly make you a better critic.

You point out that “critics operate in the gap between art and its potential audience, while always being part of that audience,” and that “thanks to their greater engagement with art as critics, they are usually lucky enough to get a front-row seat.” At what point does a critic’s engagement become cheerleading? Additionally, criticism can be used for manipulative purposes, as seen in various contexts.

The easiest way to attract an audience or readership, sadly, is through negative reviews. For example, I recall that when a newspaper critic completely dismissed an exhibition at the City Racing Gallery (co-founded by our present advertising, Matt Hale), saying something like “don’t get out of bed to see this show” and “don’t waste your time”, yet the gallery recorded its biggest attendance ever. It’s a bit like crowds gathering around a crash site, but I like to think that some people went along in order to make up their own minds. Negative reviews attract attention because there’s a lot of hostility to contemporary art, particularly in the popular press. At AM we never publish negative reviews of young artists. They’re just starting out and it could be career ending – that’s what I meant earlier about taking responsibility. In our view it’s better not to publish a review at all. It’s different if they’re an established artist, in that case, if you’re not fully positive about their show you should say so and why. A better way to gain and audience, or readership – and retain it – is to stand for something. Taking a political stance – not party political – helps you and your readership to navigate a way through the crowded field of contemporary art. You cannot represent all art, so you have to take a view, in both senses. Ours at Art Monthly is broadly of the left, but critically so. Every decision is a political and ethical as well as aesthetic one: where you write, what you write, who you write about, why you write. With regard to ‘cheerleading’, unlike a catalogue essay, in which a writer is clearly a partisan who is writing at the invitation of the artist or gallery, a review should be critical – in the best sense. Both writers and editors have a responsibility to declare their interest: for instance, at AM we don’t accept recommendations for review from ‘interested parties’, be they gallerists, dealers or artists. We also expect our writers to observe the same ethical stance.

There is little public understanding when negative criticism appears because negative and positive criticism both seem to aim to create a sensation. At Art Magazine Kontura, we strive to publish constructive criticism, even if it is negative. However, this is not preferable. You also pointed out this effect. The past years have not been favorable for magazines.

We’re all in the same situation. So many magazines have disappeared in the last 15 years. We are the oldest British contemporary art magazine, and we’re still surviving. In 2017, we became a charity to raise funds, most of which we use to support alternative artist-run art courses and cash-strapped public libraries through our Subscription Donation Fund. But it’s very difficult if you’re an ethical fundraiser. You can’t take money from just anyone. And there are not many people who want to give money to an art-critical foundation. They like giving it to artists and museums, but not to us. We don’t receive funding from the City of London, but they do subsidize our rent. We still have a grant from the Arts Council of England, but it now represents a much smaller proportion of our income; the rest we make ourselves, which is more than three-quarters. Advertising is difficult, especially since the rise of social media. We’re all suffering across the world. And that’s why people go down the promotional route, because galleries will pay for a “puff,” but they won’t pay for a critical article. So that’s the reality.

However, magazines have exceptional long-term value. Are you guided by that?

Artists are eager to receive a critical review in magazine like AM or Kohtura. Artists know that if they want to be part of art history, a review in a printed or long-form magazine is there for the long term, for the record – Art Monthly’s archive is in the Tate, for instance. On the other hand, if they want to sell, they need to cater to the market. It’s a dilemma for artists and everyone. The problem for us is what I call “the dog that didn’t bark in the night” question, as in the Conan Doyle mystery story. The clue was that the dog that always barked didn’t bark on the night in question. If Art Monthly, Heaven forfend, were to die, I feel that people would say, “Oh my God”, but by then it would be too late. Because we have been around for so long, people expect us to just continue doing what we do – for free!

That situation is analogous to our own. At one point in the introduction of your book The Ends of Art Criticism you say, “But I also hope to show that magazines have played, and continue to play, a vital part in identifying and engaging with new ideas in art and in disseminating them – arguably one the chief ‘ends’ of art criticism.” What are the challenges and demands of running a magazine today? What is the biggest challenge your magazine is facing now?

I feel so sympathetic because I’m coming to the end of my career. When we’re 50, which is in October 2026, I hope very much to be able say goodbye. But I can’t leave until I know the magazine is safe. That’s all I care about. Some people feel they’ve done their part and can leave, but I don’t feel that way. I care passionately that the magazine continues without me. When I first joined, we weren’t making any money, and it wasn’t until 2008 that we started running with a surplus. Since then, it’s been a terrible struggle. I hear from people everywhere about the struggle to survive as a critical voice, not just a promotional one. The market is slightly wobbly now, reminding people that while the market comes and goes, critical writing becomes history and stays the distance. Maybe there will be a slight shift. We have so far survived many crises, but at a cost. While Circa, a serious and well-respected black-and-white magazine, switched to colour after 2008, and reduced its content to save money, we stayed true to our black-and-white format; sadly, but Circa eventually disappeared from the stands, a sad loss. Counter-intuitively, we decided collectively to expand our content – including publishing longer articles – without raising production costs, and we voluntarily took a pay cut. It saved us. Colour was never an option: the reason black-and-white images were originally used was A, for cheapness, and B, because we want our readers to go out and look at the art for themselves. We discuss ideas and content but don’t tell you what to look at—that’s up to you.

Everyone in the arts sector in the UK, including in arts publishing, is exhausted from the past fourteen years of economic and cultural austerity under what was an increasingly right-wing government. We are still waiting to hear what the new Labour government’s financial plans are for the arts. In the end, integrity matters most. In the early days, before taking up teaching full-time at the university of Westminster (one of the former polytechnics I referred to earlier) I did many other jobs to survive—waiting in restaurants, ushering at cinemas, and so on, as well as teaching part-time. But that was because there was something else that I wanted to do more. It’s like those actors who dream of becoming stars and work all these other jobs to support themselves meanwhile. In the arts maybe we have to accept that we won’t have traditional careers. Not all of us are like Germano Celant, who, I believe once said, “I don’t get out of bed for less than 2,000 euros”!

Yeah, just surviving. Sometimes I say our magazine runs on enthusiasm. It’s a huge job that takes full attention…

Yes, it’s the same for all of us. We all have other responsibilities. The longer we survive, the more funders, like the state and the Arts Council of England, think we can survive on nothing. They don’t understand that at some point we won’t be able to survive. One issue we face is that the bottom line is business, particularly now that advertising revenue is falling away across the sector. Potential funders don’t understand why we need funding. That’s why we talk about an ecosystem where we need to help each other survive. For our 50th anniversary we hope to make it clear that we might not survive another 50 years without support. What we need is an endowment. The Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum in the US have endowments, allowing them to be independent from government interference, whereas Tate depends on UK government money. If they – and we – had an endowment, we’d be independent too. But governments want us to keep asking for money, it gives them a degree of control. This is indirect censorship. No one, especially governments, wants to fund a dissenting voice or allow such voices their independence. In the past the church sought to control the arts, today it is governments, which in democracies achieve. Control though funding – of the lack of it.

A few months ago, I spoke with Richard Deacon who was surprised at how much we in the former Yugoslavia countries knew about your country and artists. You really shaped the art world, especially in the ’70s and ’80s, with artists like the new British sculptors. But what about today? What similarities does it have to that period?

It’s kind of you to say that. Richard Deacon and his generation of ‘Lisson Gallery Sculptors’ were so important in raising the profile of UK art in Europe and internationally, which made it easier for the next generation of artists. We made a lot of noise in the ’80s and ’90s, and we have great artists, no question. But our governments, institutions, and literary classes don’t really support the visual arts, unless the artists are long dead. We love literature, poetry, and drama, but visual art struggles to be taken seriously unless it’s landscape painting, like Constable and Turner. Our country thrives on theatre, and Shakespeare is still central to our culture, of course. We worship the word – except when it is used in contemporary art, then it is seen as trespassing! This hostility, or indifference to the visual arts in the UK matters, because the last government cut all funding for visual arts in schools and universities, which is now affecting the next generation of artists. Yet there was no protest outside the visual arts sector. The current generation of artists feels isolated and unheard. They’re frustrated that, while their predecessors could make noise, today’s artists struggle to be heard or seen, let alone make a living. In a recent article for AM, Michael Kurtz, who is also our Listings Editor, wrote about artists whose work goes beyond ‘institutional critique’ to show how even mighty museums are crumbling warehouses for temporary display of art. Walead Beshty, for instance, packages his work – boxes fabricated from glass – and Fed-Exes them to museums where they are displayed in their cracked and broken condition, just another product in the global art circuit. Another artist, Frank Wasser, destroys his work once it arrives at the museum partly in protest at the ease with which art is produced and consumed. This sense of frustration, of needing to shout to be heard, is testament to how much harder for artists to be heard today, and I can’t help thinking, too, that a radical artist like Mladen Stilinović wouldn’t get any attention today. At least it was his choice to opt out, the same is not true for younger artists today.

How would you describe your relationship with Yugoslav artists and former Yugoslav countries?

We are very ignorant here in the UK, made worse by Brexit. We know the famous names — Marina Abramović, Braco Dimitrijević, Laibach — but there are many others from the New Art Practice whose names remain unknown here. There was great conceptual art made here, too, in the 1960 sand 70s that nobody talks about. The US has taken ownership of conceptual art and disregards what happened elsewhere. Yet, conceptual art was developing in Yugoslavia, Scandinavia, Japan — everywhere, in unique ways. Most artists I grew up with worked in that mode but ended up teaching the generation that became famous in the 1980s. Those who succeeded often did so because they were taught by that pioneering generation. Ask people, even in the art world in the UK, if they know the work of John Hilliard, Susan Hiller, Andrea Fisher or Tim Head, and they probably won’t know their names, but their influence has been profound. So, we have to cultivate this appetite and interest. You will likely have to do the same. After Yugoslavia’s breakup, you had to develop your own ecosystems, and that takes time. Sometimes, historical forces accelerate things — like the Cold War did for modern art in America. The US wanted to showcase their creativity and freedom in contrast to the perceived rigidity and conformism of the Eastern Bloc. But we knew nothing about what was actually happening there — we didn’t want to know. Everything has its time — as Shakespeare said.

Do you consider that insisting on ethnic, economic, and class diversity sometimes leads to exclusivity, causing the artwork itself to be lost? We want to illustrate some trends and topics. Don’t you think this is a symptom of the Biennale?

Yes, and Documenta. The last Documenta faced much criticism for representing globalism at its worst. This is a real problem. It’s reminiscent of the 19th-century world trade fairs where tribal people were shamefully exhibited as “exotic”. We risk doing the same with art today. In the end, you can’t cover everything. I remember at the Australian Biennale, during a radio interview, I was suddenly asked what I thought of Aboriginal art. I said, ‘nothing’ — and that was shocking to them. But I didn’t know anything about it, and anything I might have said would have been meaningless, so I had no opinion to offer. How could I possibly know anything about Balinese or Arabic art unless it’s been shown and processed by the western art system? Like it or not, that’s the reality. Many artists want to be presented in the western context, and by the time I get to see their work — through a Biennale or a London gallery — it has already passed through our system. We’re not seeing it in its original context. That’s part of the point about Beshty’s ‘Fed-Ex art’ — sent around in parcels, losing authenticity along the way and sustaining more and more damage as it travelled, a record of the real and metaphorical harm this global circulation inflicts on art and on artists. We may be approaching a point in art like tourism fatigue in Spain and Italy — where people are saying, “Enough”. I remember posters in Venice saying “No more big ships”. Huge ships would pass the Giudecca, flooding the rive with their wake. Perhaps the same will happen with contemporary art; people will refuse this endless circulation.

When you write about the claims of a “crisis of art criticism”, you mentioned the disappearance of critics. Is this crisis limited to art criticism or also present in literary and theatre criticism?

I was referring to the fact that owing perhaps to the arrogance of critics in the past, many writers on art today hesitate to describe themselves as critics, even while they continue to practice criticism. But yes, it’s a similar trajectory, perhaps. At a Tate opening, a Goldsmiths music professor told me: “You in the visual arts are far more sophisticated than we are.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “You’re addressing things we can’t even begin to tackle. Not even music historians show that sophistication”. I like to think we’re lightyears ahead of theatre and literary critics. In the UK people are generally not interested in the visual arts unless they become newsworthy or are sensationalised, as you put it. People still go to the theatre and read books—audiences haven’t had to change. Art on the other hand, lost its audience with the advent of Modernism and had to rebuild its base. As I write in my book, when artists lost their public, they effectively said to themselves ‘To hell with you!’ and carried on regardless. But that couldn’t last. The market stepped in, and you had to sell to survive. Theatre and literature didn’t have to reinvent themselves; audiences and readers stayed with them. Music lovers still read reviews and decide what to attend. But artists remain unsure of their audiences. That’s a lonely place to be. That’s why critics matter more than ever. We are the bridge. In effect we are saying ‘We care,  and so might you if you knew more.’

People aren’t interested anymore… How do we respond?

It’s our shared problem. As specialists, we can’t avoid some jargon, but we at AM avoid “theory speak” and use plain English where possible. If you can’t express ideas in 750 words, you should consider doing something else. That’s the discipline—clear language, minimal jargon, and explain if necessary. In teaching, I’d use terms like chiaroscuro and sfumato, but define them immediately. How do you widen access without losing quality? The Turner Prize became popular thanks to Channel 4—TV multiplies the audience. But how much spectacle is too much? And what’s lost? At AM, we try to reach out to our readers, and potential readers, via various means: our Talking Art monthly radio show, our website which has free content including an interactive gallery map, podcasts of the radio show and live interviews and talks, the Newsletter, which includes free content, and through social media. We don’t create new social media content—just promote what’s coming up in the next issue,  and we also repost notifications about our writers’ and staff activities, while a six-month subscription includes full archive access. But all this extra activity stretches our tiny team thin.

You said most writers in your magazine are artists. You have compiled an anthology of Art Monthly’s best interviews with artists Talking Art, in two volumes. Is the networking and excessive closeness within the art scene a consequence of the loss of the art critic’s identity? Can such closeness be dangerous sometimes?

Many of our writers certainly identify as artists. That doesn’t mean they’re all practicing, but they either identify as or were trained as artists. British art education once supported this, but things have changed, as I discussed earlier. Many artists now stay in art education because the system is designed to keep them there, and because while it defers the date when they have to repay their student debt, it keeps the fees rolling in to the increasing corporatised university sector. After gaining a degree, students are pushed toward an MA, then a PhD, after which they might do post-doctoral research or go on to teach because you have to have a PhD to teach these days—thereby completing the circle. I don’t know how healthy this is.

There was a saying: ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach; those who can’t teach, teach teachers to teach’. There was the idea that if you taught or wrote, you were a failed artist. That changed in the 1980s, when more artists began writing about their own practice. When art colleges were absorbed into the university sector, a written thesis became mandatory, representing 30% of your eventual degree. This was partly because there was a perception that art schools weren’t ‘proper’ universities, that art was not a ‘proper’ academic subject. In my experience, even before the mandatory thesis was introduced , artists were generally the most intelligent people I knew. But forcing them into academic formats satisfied parents, funders, and newspaper critics who claimed art degrees weren’t ‘real’ academic qualifications. They used to say that about social studies, and then shifted that criticism on to art. But despite all the flaws in education now, if you’ve studied art, you’re still closer to it than a literary critic who simply decides to write about visual art. People say the 19^th-century English critic and writer John Ruskin was a tremendous draftsman, which he was. But his academic studies of architecture and plants are dry, like something from a scientific book. I drew well when I was young, but I was never an artist—I didn’t think like one. Drawing is a skill that can be taught. But saying something interesting through drawing is something else entirely. So, I still maintain that most critics who are or who trained as artists have a real connection to art. And if that displaces the authoritarian critic—so much the better.

When we talk about education and research, especially in art, what should be the relationship between art, research, and education? Should freedom to experiment be more prevalent in artistic practice?

Well, you have put your finger on it. The most important thing is experimentation, the freedom to experiment. One of the worst developments in endless tertiary art education is the demand for funding applicants to define research outcomes before starting. This is madness. I had a colleague who had to repay his grant because his outcomes didn’t match his original proposal. This wasn’t a private body but a national funding agency—which makes it even worse. Such demands are disastrous for any research—scientific, artistic, or musical. If artists receive funding, their terms of reference must allow freedom to experiment. It’s necessary to not know in advance what the outcome will be. Isn’t that what art is? A third territory, somewhere different, unpredictable. Its terms of reference can’t be fixed. It all happens in that undefined space in the middle. And if you can’t explain it—who cares?

Everything needs to be explained, but sometimes we only have the option of being in silence.

Exactly!

It’s interesting how you refer to the transformation of criticism through the centuries. How can we today use knowledge and art history—even John Ruskin’s writings—to make our work stronger, as he was a powerful voice in his time? Do we look at art history enough—both individually and collectively?

I’ve given up teaching now, so I’m not sure what goes on in university art departments. People were often amazed when I said that I taught art history, especially the Renaissance period, to art students. Students loved it because of the distance. They could look at the period without history breathing down their necks, it was like seeing themselves from the other end of the telescope. My job was just to explain the different context. They were free to view art without a sense of inferiority because it was so far removed. Yet, at the same time, they saw the same dilemmas facing artists then as now. If you rush through a gallery, everything looks the same but if you stop, and look closely, it doesn’t. And isn’t that exactly what you want for your own work? That people stop and really engage with it? Colleagues would sometimes suggest that the 19th century would be more ‘relevant’.  I hate that word. Who knows what’s relevant? Everything is. In some ways, the 19th century is weirder, it looks a bit like our time – not least because of the advent of photography – but is utterly different. So, for me it’s nonsense to claim that the more recent a period, the more relevant it is. I used to say, “I teach art history—that’s my job, not yours. You are artists, take from history what you will.’ I’d be disappointed if they’re not still looking at art’s histories, though, but not surprised. Partly, it’s the fault of ‘art history’ as it was taught: decolonial studies have caused people to see how white and western art history was, how much of it focused on famous individuals. People have at last begun to ask themselves whose history was being studied, which is why I prefer to refer to ‘art’s histories’, or ‘art histories’. It will take time, but a lot of good—and bad—work is being done to revise and enlarge art’s histories. There’s still so much to unpack.

Because art history is sometimes one of the great sources for artists. For example, Bill Viola takes a lot from art history, even Renaissance and Mannerism.

Yes, absolutely. That’s the most obvious route. He doesn’t hide his trail. But there are other ways art grows out of art history. Artists often feel uneasy with that idea, because no matter how much we dismiss originality as romantic nonsense, people still believe in it. Artists need to invent themselves, and only later, perhaps, gain the confidence to acknowledge their influences. Painters, I think, are sometimes afraid to look at great painters. But non-painters — for whom painting is just one medium among many — don’t have that problem. In fact, they see art history as a rich source of ideas and inspiration. And long may that be the case. It’s all one cloth in the end — our heritage and our future.

You point out in your book that “theory as applied to art is exactly that—applied theory. And to that extent, it is contingent on the art being addressed.” How much applied theory is dominant today? How do you feel about the fact the boundaries between criticism and theory have blurred?

My first degree was in the history and theory of art, So I’ve always been embedded with theory. When Alberti theorized about perspective, he was also theorizing about art—its place, meaning, and more. So, it’s a given part of the language of art, either as an artist or a critic. I am not opposed to theory, not at all. What I am against is when theory drives criticism. There are those who approach art with a theory first and then go out to find an art that fits that theory— invariably a mediocre art, art that goes with the flow. As you know, I like artists who interrupt the flow. I have never been able to find anything but bad art that fits a theory neatly. What I have found repeatedly is great art that challenges theory, and that’s as it should be. If you have a theory of everything, you have a theory of nothing. It’ is like when you stumble on a submerged rock just below the surface, that is like the moment of discovery when the actual encounter with art has made you shift your perspective, even if only slightly. Theory is invaluable for developing your perspective, but theory should also be kept in perspective. That’s all I ask.

Also, sometimes critics write in such a hermetic way, full of false notes and endless references to others. And so, you read it and later wonder: What was he/she talking about? We really need something clearer and simpler.

If you can’t understand it, maybe it wasn’t very understandable to begin with! Language should be clear and simple, I agree – not the ideas but their expression. I think of Umberto Eco—the most readable writer, both in his theory and in his novels, which are somewhat illustrative of his theories. Fantastic.

[1] At the very beginning, Patricia Bickers cites James Elkins’ book What Happened to Art Criticism? as an impetus for writing. (A conversation with Elkins on the topic of criticism was published in Kontura: Loinjak, Igor. 2022. James Elkins: Critics Tend to Avoid Issuing Direct Judgments, Art Magazine Kontura, 156, May 2022, Zagreb.); Bickers, Patricia. 2021. The Ends of Art Criticism. Lund Humphries Publishers Ltd, series: New Directions in Contemporary Art, London.