While The Space For Artists And Curators

Art Is Good, Bad, Boring, Ugly, Useful To Us Or Not. It Does Or Doesn't Disturb Optical Monotony, And Succeeds Or Fails In Surmounting Sterility Of Style Or Visual Stereotype; It Creates New Beauty Or It Doesn't.

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

Any Critic Will Tell You That There Are A Few Dealers Where You Get A Little Bit Scared To Go Into Their Gallery, And That's Unfair To Them, To Yourself, To The Reader, And To The Artist. But I Just Want To Look. When I'm Done Looking And Writing, I Love Talking To Art Dealers. They Are So Alive And Interesting And Amazing - From Larry Gagosian All The Way On Down.

As I Went Through 'this Progress,' One Of Two Performance Pieces By Tino Sehgal That Transform Frank Lloyd Wright's Emptied-out Spiral Into A Dreamy Socratic-purgatorial Journey, The Museum Literally Fell Away. I Was Suspended In Some Weird Nonspace.

As I Made My Way Through 'on Line,' The Austere, Stridently Dogmatic, Sometimes Revelatory Exhibition 'about Line' At Moma, I Found Myself Thinking, 'someone Please Wake Me When The Seventies Are Over!' In The Empire Of Curators, The Sun Never Sets On The Seventies. It Is The Undead Decade.