My Nominee For Best Picture Of The

Chris Ofili's Suave, Stippled, Visually Tricked-out Paintings Of The Nineties, With Their Allover Fields Of Shimmering Dots And Clumps Of Dung, Are Like Cave Paintings Of Modern Life. They Crackle With Optical Cockiness, Love, And Massive Amounts Of Painterly Mojo.

There's Something Pleasing About Large, Well-lit Spaces. I Love That Dealers Are Willing To Take Massive Chances In Order To Give This Much Room To Their Artists. Most Of All, I Love That More Galleries Showing More Art Gives More Artists A Shot.

My Job As Art Critic Is To Watch Artists Dance Naked In Public, And Then I Will, In Turn, Dance Naked Critically In Public.

If The Frieze Art Fair Catches On, I Imagine At Least Two Great Things Happening. First, We Will Once Again Have A Huge Art Fair In Town That Isn't Too Annoying To Go To. More Importantly, Frieze May Finally Show New Yorkers That We Can Cross Our Own Waters For Visual Culture. That Would Change Everything.

I See Artists Bored By Light-without-heat, Irked At Gigantic Galleries' Pushing Out Art-as-product, Leaving Behind The Over Determined For The Undetermined, Guided By Interior Voices And Bringing Us Out Of A Long Tunnel To New Blueness.