Don't Talk. I Can't Hear Myself See.

Kinkade's Paintings Are Worthless Schmaltz, And The Lamestream Media That Love Him Are Wrong. However, I'd Love To See A Museum Mount A Small Show Of Kinkade's Work. I Would Like The Art World And The Wider World To Argue About Him In Public, Out In The Open.

Certainty Sees Things In Restrictive, Protective, Aggressive Ways, And Thus Isn't Seeing At All.

These Days, Newish Art Can Be Priced Between $10,000 And $25,000. When I Tell Artists That A New Painting By A Newish Artist Should Go For Around $1,200, They Look At Me Like I'm A Flesh-eating Virus.

Art Schools Are Partly The Villain Here. (never Mind That I Teach In Them.) This Generation Of Artists Is The First To Have Been So Widely Credentialed, And Its Young Members So Fetishize The Work Beloved By Their Teachers That Their Work Ceases To Talk About Anything Else. Instead Of Enlarging Our View Of Being Human, It Contains Safe Rehashing Of Received Ideas About Received Ideas. This Is A Melancholy Romance With Artistic Ruins, Homesickness For A Bygone Era. This Yearning May Be Earnest, But It Stunts Their Work, And By Turn The Broader Culture.

The Price Of A Work Of Art Has Nothing To Do With What The Work Of Art Is, Can Do, Or Is Worth On An Existential, Alchemical Level.