I Know It's Dangerous To Take On

The Forties, Seventies, And The Nineties, When Money Was Scarce, Were Great Periods, When The Art World Retracted But It Was Also Reborn.

When I Criticize Joseph Beuys Or Francis Bacon, Nobody Calls Those Opinions Anti-male. Putting Female Artists Or Their Subject Matter Off-limits Is Itself Sexist And Limiting.

After Too Much Art That Made Too Much Sense, Artists Are Operating Blind Again. They're More Interested In The Possible Than The Probable, The Private That Speaks Publicly Rather Than The Public With No Private Side At All.

Too Many Younger Artists, Critics, And Curators Are Fetishizing The Sixties, Transforming The Period Into A Deformed Cult, A Fantasy Religion, A Hip Brand, And A Crippling Disease.

First Let Me Report That The Art In The Barnes Collection Has Never Looked Better. My Trips To The Old Barnes Were Always Amazing, But Except On The Sunniest Days, You Could Barely See The Art. The Building Always Felt Pushed Beyond Its Capacity.