The end of term is fast approaching, which means I have spent far too much time inside frantically working on papers and devouring hours and hours of The Wire (and occasionally drinking in a fashion similar to the characters on The Wire – this is not a good thing). This means I haven’t been out to see much/any art as of late. I have a lot of guilt about this, but I’m sure in a couple weeks when this madness ends I’ll be able to resume the occasional art visit.

In the meantime, I would like to re-declare my non-romantic love for Guardian art critic Adrian Searle.

His articles on the Turner Prize have always made me howl with laughter and his newest article about the crisis in arts criticism is no different:

People blame all the money sluicing round the art world. They blame the internet and the rise of the blogger. They blame the dumbing-down of newspapers and the replacement of criticism with the sparkling, if vapid, preview featurette, and the artist-as-celebrity photo opportunity profile. Who cares about the art or the concepts? They’re just the MacGuffin. Tell us about the parties, the openings, the drugs and the dresses. Artists are creative, and creative is sexy and good. Critics are a comedown. Some have hair sprouting from their ears. They’re always complaining; they’re untrustworthy; they’re full of hate and spite and they make everything all so complicated, when all we’re really trying to do is sell a lifestyle. Fuck ’em.

And maybe more succinctly:

Writing about art only matters because art deserves to be met with more than silence (although ignoring art – not speaking about it, not writing about it – is itself a form of criticism, and probably the most damning and effective one).

Via VoCA’s blog.