Not another art critique

Being an arts writer isn't easy. It takes profound writing capability, an in-depth knowledge of culture, and the ability to B.S. your way out of almost any review.

Maybe the difficulty in critiquing another person's art stems from the idea that art itself is a temperamental beast. It changes with the whim of each person, bearing great significance to some and little to others.

Maybe the difficulty also stems from the idea that certain art is crap.

Let's take modern art expos, for example. You're dispatched to uncover the story behind the creator and the artwork, both through interviewing the artist and reviewing the artwork itself.

The artist will usually play phone tag for a bit, getting back to you when they have proven their elusiveness. Once reached, the person will go on in great length about how the brushstrokes in the pieces remind him of his mother, or how pink is actually the color of her torment.

After learning about the history of the artist, you don a black cape and make your way to the gallery. Sometimes, the expo turns out to be spellbinding, inspiring; you write with colorful adjectives and whimsical allusions to "Lord of the Rings."

Sometimes, it's a piece of lint taped to the wall.

This is when the creative process comes full force, and you try to use all the adjectives in your vocabulary to make a completely uneventful event sound like it's the Second Coming.

"The room was stark and white," you begin to write, "The patrons were decked in criminally edgy berets. And there, compromisingly pinned between the whitewash wall and a piece of scotch tape, was a piece of lint."

Then you realize that a stronger adjective is needed to describe the object itself.

"And there, compromisingly pinned between the whitewash wall and a piece of scotch tape, was a sinuous, supple pinch of lint."

Even if you think the artwork is crap, you can't actually say it's crap. That would be uncouth and unthinkable. Instead, you can only criticize its status in the art world, cutting the piece down by comparing it to as many other artists you can think of who are already established in the field of lint and abstract art.

"While the lint mimicked the clockwork symmetry of Salvador Dali's full-figured nudes or the mocking faces of the harlequins in Miro's later works," you write, "the Don-Li Leger-like lint lacked the unflaggingly dire mystique that filled the liner notes of Metallica's "Master of Puppets" or the hauntingly bashful oil paintings by F. Scott Fitzgerald."

Then you realize that you're not even talking about the same category of entertainment anymore.

Music and movie reviews are usually better. At least those have actual substance. Sometimes.

With band interviews, you can usually call a few days ahead of deadline and set up a reasonably timed interview. Sometimes though, you get a doozie. This especially holds water with flavor-of-the-month pop-rock-synth-disco-punk bands.

You can tell it's going to be a bad interview when the publisher's secretary answers the phone, toying with you and refusing to say whether or not you're ever going to get an interview.

"YOUR DEADLINE'S TWO WEEKS FROM NOW?? I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S LATE NOTICE. THE GUYS ARE REEEEALLY BUSY!!" they chastise with their California drawl. You can already feel their fake tans forming melanoma on the phone receiver. "WE'LL SEE IF WE CAN SQUEEZE YOU IN, K?"

You spend the next night pacing your room in apprehension, jumping every time someone calls you. You go through every single ring tone on your phone, developing a hatred for each one. The band members are probably having a good time and getting drunk right now, you think. Or have been drunk for the past forty-eight hours.

Finally, at a leisurely brunch hour the next day, you'll get the winning call.

"DO YOU HAVE TICKETS TO THE SHOW?" They'll say, acting like they're hooking you up with tickets to a concert with a reincarnated Jim Morrison. "WELL HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO SEE THE HEATED HEATED HIPSTERS??!!!!"

"Um, okay," you say, just relieved they returned the call.

"RAD! AND NOW, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, HERE'S JUSTIN CUMBERBUND FROM THE HEATED HEATED HIPSTERS!!!!"

Justin answers the phone with the combination of a belch and a hung-over cough. His answers are dull and premeditated. The temperamental beast has drowned him in his own fame.

And you think, "Damn, give me the piece of lint any day."