To the uninitiated, art school critiques are lofty and instructional. To those who sit through them, critiques are loopy entertainment.
One of my instructors concluded drawing classes with high drama. Student work was arranged in front of the model while the prof prowled the studio perimeter. With long strides, he circled the seated students, occasionally eyeing the drawings the way a leopard stalks prey on a savannah.
His circles got smaller and smaller. Finally he stood before the students. Head tilted, hand to forehead, eyes closed, he peered at an invisible horizon. Then with a grand gesture, he waved his hand in a wide overhead arc, followed by a modified dope-slap, and began his critique:
“This drawing,” he would start, “I see it but I’m not convinced the elements of the figure have integrated into a unified, believable whole.” His critiques were usually lengthier, but “I’m not convinced” was a kiss-of-death. It was his way of saying a drawing didn’t engage.
Painting and drawing are similar to preparing a case for trial: there's gathering and processing evidence, organizing facts, plotting strategy, mounting a compelling argument, and finally convincing a jury beyond reasonable doubt that the assembled package presents a believable whole.
Yet this is where a trial jury and a jury of art patrons part paths. French impressionist Edgar Degas said, “A painting requires a little mystery, some vagueness, some fantasy. When you always make your meaning perfectly clear you end up boring people.”
Art is successful when it is convincing and engaging, because without the pull of mystery or doubt, art patrons (the jurors) yawn and fast-forward to the next piece. In the fickle court of cultural opinion, "draw-power" is king, and on the stand an art work that dazzles and mystifies is the star witness.
Vincent Van Gouda, artist & critic
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