The Art Idiot: Finale de Trois
those cranky critics care a lot
It’s my first visit to many new readers’ inboxes; welcome to The Art Idiot. Like you, I am here to have fun, stay curious, and stay awhile. From my screen to yours, with kindness.
Culture goes unchecked and becomes uncool without the contribution of a critic. There’s no such thing as “there’s no such thing as bad press” without the words of a critic, the ones who cunningly craft said “bad press.” In a now seemingly saturated field, why yes, everybody is a critic; it just happens that some are better at it than others; artistry in any form, more broadly, is no different. If everybody were truly a critic, the humanities, and frankly, society, would not suffer in this way. Sure, carp and chirp about the things you find unacceptable, just do so for the sake of concern for collective betterment. Cultural complaining vis-à-vis is very chic; love expressed tête-à-tête is tasteful and taking.
As I lock in on this craft of mine, I’m questioned continuously about what I do, what critics do, and what exactly makes me qualified to do something like this. Almost two years ago, my fellow critic and co-host and I conversed about “How We Watch Films,” where we trepidate around labeling ourselves critics and explain our methodology of engaging with movies. Two years later, there’s a new level of confidence yet humility in confessing to undertaking this vocation, one that is confusing yet crucial as increasingly lower standards in all industries become our status quo. Two years later, I’m a part of the 2025 Chicago Critic’s Table cohort, 7 critics coming together for a collective revival and revolution of how creative criticism will continue to exist and innovate and disrupt and uplift and call for all to care in a deeply curious way. In just our first week together, we quickly came to the consensus that part of practice cares greatly for chipping away at making the world around us the best it can be and archiving the nuances of our realities.
(good) Critics, like artists, (should) evolve their craft over time. The callouses developing on my fingertips are a physical manifestation of what it feels like to move through a society that begs for a hardened heart. Criticism, a potential professional form of hating, can be employed as an act of communal care, an act of keeping one’s heart full of compassion through craziness. In my self-proclaimed best works, there’s always an element of nailing my bleeding heart to the wall. There’s no pleasure in wasting my time, and yours, writing about a cuppa tea that isn’t for me. As a contemporary who is looking to carve a cool, critical, and conversational path as a writer, Critique as Care comes to mind, which was first introduced to me through
’s For Opacity piece. Both Mandy Harris Williams and Bacon are acutely cognizant of the commitment that criticism requires, both on a personal, internal level and an external, societal one.
Museums, institutions and individuals, develop collections, an archive of their own right. However, collections are intrinsically connected to a specific type of capital, putting monetary value at the forefront of a work’s identity. From there, curators create a story, a through thread that contextualizes this collection and its arrangement. These practices world build and canon construct but know several bounds; careful review and adherence to a board, to institutional frameworks often constricts full-fledged freedom.
One, an art idiot, may argue that criticism is different; perhaps one of the most radical yet accessible forms of contributing to the conversation, as it directly communicates through written language rather than any visual medium. It interprets art and guides the cultural comprehension and reception; another dangerous game, depending on whose voice is loudest. Modern media is crumbling; writers who remain unflinching in their commitment to truth are punished, pushed aside. Independent publications rise as the scale of checks and balances continues to rock.
While I plow forward, focusing on actually critiquing and not just talking about critiquing, the real work begins. Growth, a process of shedding the shells of the past, requires reflection. As this publication ventures towards long-form creative think pieces and recontextualizations of certain components of our culture, the The Art Idiot’s inaugural issue still rings true: “ [The Art Idiot] seeks to make the conversation surrounding Art more inclusive and accessible… it hopes to make other idiots feel found and then feel like an idiot no longer.” Individuality is more important than ever, the driving force of first impressions and interpretations, which then creates interconnections and leads to ideations. While I don’t aim for my work to be for everyone, I continue to aim to somewhat level the playing field, providing an equitable chance to the bravely, audaciously curious, at any level.
Pieces of Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, The Art Idiot presents a poem and a snippet from one of the greats. As I strive to be just that, great, I look to poetry to smoothly put my pen to page.
My Chicago Soul Poem was written from participation in a poetry workshop with Chicago’s Poet Laureate, avery r. young, hosted at the Chicago Public Library - Budlong Branch. March 21, 2025. It feels fitting to reflect on my first visit to an art museum, the beginning of the butterfly effect that led to this publication, as The Art Idiot soon enters its 4th volume. To complete an assignment for an elementary school art class, I went on the hunt for my first-ever “favorite painting” at the Art Institute of Chicago, circa 2007.
nighthawks in gotham city early morning movement, stillness before the boom 58th & indiana to adams & wabash i’m not cold, i just can’t feel my toes running towards the audacity of opportunity searching for a world not yet discovered we’re all just nighthawks in gotham city
As a regular reader of the Poetry Foundation’s “Poem of the Day,” Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise hit my inbox on the morning I filed my taxes. As Patricia (my tax lady) gently told me that I owe the “government,” Angelou’s words ironically, comedically comforted me as I cuss quietly about the IRS in the age of DOGE:
In tough times, we turn to art. Art, in all forms (song, dance, film, photography, painting, craft, movement, etc), reminds us that others, too, have felt this feeling. While Angelou was specifically speaking to other forms of societal resilience, the poem, like all art, remains political, whether it’s about the Black feminine physique and presence or the fact that the IRS shafted me yet again.
As we slowly enter Spring, soon to be Summer, it’s easier than ever to see the poetry of the quotidienne. The separate yet collective traffic hour decompression after a work day; together we groove to our own tunes while we’re stuck in this jam. Constantly getting caught in the rain is such a pain, but there’s much to gain when watered regularly by the universe. Longer days of light leave us a little loopier than usual due to less sleep and more play, a worthwhile expense for the sake of staying out and being silly with our soulmates. Rolling with the punches is the price one pays for perceiving the art of the everyday.
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An eloquent defense of critique as care. I am just beginning my practice as a critic of contemporary black music and have been looking for hued brethren in this space. Finding your work has been like a buoy in turbulent waters. Many thanks.
Eloquent as always