I wear many hats in the art world, one of them as an art critic. Until recently, I have only accepted offers to attend press previews and other pre-public opening events at large-scale institutions when I knew I was actually going to write about a show. Increasingly, I realize I cannot predict whether I will want to write (or should write) about a show until I see it. Also, as someone who covers a huge metropolitan region, I need to stay abreast of the local art scene, but also schedule my own writing time with care. I want to keep track of shows, but I can’t cover it all. Is it okay—ethically, journalistically—to accept these invitations, attend press previews, and NOT write about the exhibition? I’m not trying to run a scam, but I do feel slightly dishonest. Should I even be worried about this? Thanks for your continued sagacity.

John Baldessari. Pictures & Scripts: Honey – What Words Come to Mind?, 2015; diptych: varnished inkjet print on canvas with acrylic paint; 108 x 67 1/2 x 1 1/2 in.

In brief: Yes, you can and should go to press previews; no, you shouldn’t worry that you’re violating some ethical or journalistic code. Instead of wrapping it up with the short answer, perhaps we should talk about why you might feel uncomfortable, and what you can do about it in the future.

A press preview is an industry event that critics attend in order to determine whether they’ll be able and willing to invest their time in a conversation about the artworks. It can be very difficult to predict if you’ll want to write about a show before you’ve seen it, even if you’re already familiar with the artist’s oeuvre—and woe betide the critic who has already sent a pitch to her editor and then makes everyone’s life difficult by backing out a few days before the deadline. No critic can cover every show, even in a small city, so she must determine which of the exhibitions on offer will be the beneficiary of her attentions. In order to do this, she must possess a modicum of facts about the work, and attending press previews and seeing a lot of artwork as it is best seen (in person, without needing to elbow through a crowd of selfie-taking nitwits) is a great way to get the facts.

Some of the anxiety you feel might be attributable to the press officers who organize such events. Having eaten my share of mini-quiches at preview breakfasts, I can attest to the subsequent pressure that press officers sometimes bring to bear on the situation. I’ve had my hand pumped, been flirted with, had exhibition catalogs pressed into my arms, fielded aggressive appeals to interview artists and curators, and indeed been asked outright, “Are you going to write about this show?” before even being led into the galleries.

But press officers aren’t bad people, they’re just doing their jobs. In my experience, their interest in your thoughts is genuine, which is what makes them very good at what they do. Bless them, they are just trying to make the path to writing about the exhibition as frictionless as possible, which is why so many will tell you, “Just email me if you need anything.”

Despite the apparent warmth of these gestures, what you’re feeling underneath is the icy pressure of a universal cultural system of exchange, a psycho-social contract that’s bound up with ideas of duty and can be traced back to various ancient religions (see Freud, Sigmund). Of course, the contemporary art-criticism version of quid pro quo—we feed you canapés and champagne, you write a glowing review—generally goes undiscussed; you’re picking up on the subtle signals that tell you that if you don’t reciprocate, you’re not holding up your end of the deal. But the simple truth is that attending previews is your end of the deal. The boxed wine is an enticement designed to get you to the event, not the devil’s own down payment on a published review. What you bring to the bargain is your curiosity, knowledge, and intellect, not to mention a face in the crowd to help create more buzz, all of which are quite valuable to the institutions hosting press events. Anyone who says that you are obligated to write a review after attending a press preview is wrong; when a good press officer arranges a comfortable event and invites every writer in town, she knows that she is just playing the odds—drop enough lines in the water and surely someone will bite the hook.

If you’re ethically minded, there are limits to what you’ll be able to accept. For some, a museum presser with a snack is fine, a free catalog is respectable, but fine dining with a commercial gallery’s director and the exhibiting artist is not. Others might feel it is fair to accept lodging and transportation to an exhibition—though these usually come with an explicit understanding that you’ll write about the work. Think about your integrity, your ideals, and where you would draw the line. A much older critic once regaled me (or so he thought) with heyday tales of an art-criticism payout. He was flown first-class to a great city, put up at a four-star hotel, wined, dined, and chauffeured to the opening. He estimated the total cost to have been in the neighborhood of $10,000; of course he wrote a favorable review of the exhibition. But, other than a view into a mythical past when critics apparently had some compelling power, what he showed me was how unscrupulous he could be, and I couldn’t help but look at his work in a spurious light.

To remain au courant, an art critic must be constantly (re)engaged in contemporary conversations. Your life as a critic will be easier if you can shed the feeling of being obliged to review every show you see, and avoid the situations that make you feel as though you would have to compromise your true view of the work in order to “pay back” what you’ve been given. Good luck!

Got a burning question about practices related to contemporary art? Submit your query anonymously here.

None of my shows have ever been reviewed, even though I’ve been exhibiting my work in solo and group shows for almost six years. Press releases, personal emails, and newsletters have been sent from me and from the galleries. The galleries aren’t blue-chip, but they’re decent, and there’s an audience. Why can’t I get a review?

John Divola. As Far As I Could Get (R02F09), 10 Seconds, 1996-7; pigment print; 60 x 40 in.

There’s a strong possibility that in the same moment you submitted your question, I was standing in an exhibition space and wondering if I would or could write anything interesting about the work in front of me. Not every critic has the same constraints as I do, so I’m going to answer your query from my perspective alone; below are all the reasons that (to date) I have not written a review of an exhibition.

Before I give you my list, let’s agree that writing about art isn’t easy. The reason we make representational images and abstracted forms is because the ideas and feelings behind them are slippery and changeable, reshaping themselves from moment to moment. Meanwhile, a word is a fence—it codifies and concretizes, thus a review is an attempt at the interpretation of something whose function is to defy a final analysis. Further, the words a critic ends up using depend a lot on her race, class, gender, and education. An exhibition review can tell you more about the critic than it does about the art, and in the same way that artists sometimes feel tremulous about presenting their work to the world, the critic can feel equally wobbly because her interpretation of this ever-vacillating thing comes with the possibility that art historians, editors, fellow critics, curators, or the artist herself will say, “You’re wrong.” Taking a position and substantiating one’s claims is challenging and sometimes laborious.

Now to our list: If I like your work, there still might be a host of practical reasons why I’m not able to write about it. Please know that a lack of reviews doesn’t mean that your work doesn’t have merit. For example, sometimes I learn about exhibitions too late. Here at Daily Serving, our editorial calendar is made a month in advance, and we only publish “live” reviews for shows that are still open. If one of our critics does see your show and loves it, we won’t be able to review it unless we have a free slot before the show closes.

If you have a personal relationship with local critics, it might prevent them from writing about your work. Daily Serving has a conflict-of-interest policy, and it prevents me from writing about artwork made by my family, friends, business partners, and anyone with whom I’ve ever shared a bed. To be honest, I like our conflict-of-interest policy, but then, I’m the one who instated it in 2013 when I accepted the job of managing editor. Frankly, I don’t want to be tempted to review artwork by friends whose work I like, because then I’ll have to explain why I’m not writing about other friends’ work that I don’t like. Better to have friends, is my motto.

Time is frequently a consideration. I write for other publications, and these days, chances are excellent that I’m already busy with other writing assignments. Or just too busy, period—like the vast majority of art critics, I juggle more than one job. Sometimes they overwhelm me and I don’t have time to write about art, which pays the least; when the bills are due I turn my attention to more lucrative projects.

It’s not always my decision which shows I cover. Editors often turn writers down for reasons related to schedule or taste, and I’ve had six pitches rejected in the last three months. There’s always the prospect that a critic has wanted to write about your work but couldn’t find a venue.

Of course, maybe I disliked the work, or I didn’t feel engaged by it. I won’t struggle for hours to find les mots justes for something I feel lukewarm about. Even a show that makes me angry or upset (and there are any number of reasons why and how that might happen) doesn’t usually warrant my time. Negative reviews—or the ones that aren’t merely a receptacle for unbridled snark—take at least twice as much effort to write.

There’s the rare possibility that you were once a complete jerk to me. A few people out there behave very badly toward others for no better reason than to bolster their tiny egos, and I likely won’t review their exhibitions. This might seem obvious, but art critics are humans and we have feelings that can be hurt; unfortunately for the assholes of this world, I also have a very long memory.

Perhaps you are exhibiting your work in a busy month and/or in a city where there are tons of great shows? It can be hard to garner column inches in some locations and at particular times of the year (such as September, when the season opens), and you may want to get your work out of town or show it in the summer if you’re craving attention from a critic. Competition for reviews can be fierce in New York City, but maybe you can catch a critic’s eye in Philadelphia or St. Louis or Seattle.

Apart from these considerations, sometimes life just happens and there’s no space for writing. Critics get married or divorced, have babies, get new jobs, or are in the middle of a cross-country move during the run of your exhibition. Last spring in San Francisco there was an excellent retrospective for a performance artist. I had written about this artist’s work before in the context of a group show, and was looking forward to digging deep into her work. I spent hours at the show, taking reference photos and watching documentation videos, but I could barely take notes; when it came to saying something interesting or intelligent about the work, I was struck dumb. Earlier that same week, we’d gotten news that my mother’s leukemia had returned and that she had only months to live. There is no way to explain my situation other than to simply say that I had run out of words, a condition that persisted until a few months after her death.

I am an artist too, and I know very well that when your exhibition comes down and it hasn’t been reviewed, it can feel as though it never existed and that all your hard work was for naught. Remember that there are other ways to get your work into print: You can work with a writer to do an interview, or you can submit work to programs like our own Fan Mail series (or Hyperallergic’s “A View from the Easel,” MoMA’s Studio Visit program, or SFMoMA’s Tumblr). Continue to document your exhibitions, and make sure you’re getting your work in front of the right people. If you’re resolute and your practice continues to evolve, the critics will come. In the meantime, try to be patient with us. Good luck!

What are the ethics around a critic collecting art? I want to write a review of a dazzling painting show. While I can’t afford one of the paintings, I would like to buy one of the artist’s works on paper. Is there an ethical problem of covering this show and buying a piece not in the show—as long as I don’t write about the artist in the future? 

On Kawara. Paris–New York Drawing No. 144, 1964; graphite and colored pencil on paper, perforated top edge, 4 9/16 x 18 1/16 in. Photo: David Zwirner, New York/London.

I once walked into an exhibition and fell in love. The artist had restaged her childhood photographs with her adult body; the two images were framed side-by-side and titled with the hand-written captions from the original photo’s verso. At the time, I was examining my own identity and progress through life, and these images resonated on that same wavelength. They were priced at $600, which was the outer limit of what I could afford, and I made a quick calculation: I could buy one, or I could write a review. The former would give me a single possession that I might enjoy for my whole life; the latter would allow me to consider the entire suite of works and support the artist in a different (but no less tangible) way. In the end, I chose to review the show.

Undoubtedly there is a range of opinions on this subject; the field of art often appears to be a mucky marsh of ethical gray area. But to me, reviewing an artist when you own a piece of their work is unethical, even if that particular work is not in the show that you’re writing about. Exhibition reviews have the power to raise the social and economic value of an artist’s oeuvre, and if you own work by that artist you are—even inadvertently—raising the value of your own collection.

As usual, I asked around to see what others thought. Jen Graves, the visual arts writer at The Stranger, immediately sprang to mind; in 2007 she published an article that indicted critic Matthew Kangas for impropriety and conflict of interest. In that article, she wrote, “The emphasis on reporting instead of criticism, or in addition to criticism, has dragged critics into the same spotlight reporters work under, where lapses of judgment are firing offenses. Today, being embedded is looked at with suspicion, and being detached is more in vogue. Each position certainly has its merits. But the industry is still struggling to combine the two approaches in a way that keeps critics passionate, engaged, and knowledgeable, without allowing their biases to be, or to appear to be, personal or financial.”

Nine years later, I knew Graves would have more thoughts on the matter, and here’s what she has to say now: “The ethics around a critic collecting art aren’t particularly clear but the stakes are fairly obvious. Here’s what I do: I own very few works of art. I have two rules: I never sell anything (and wouldn’t want my children, grandchildren, etc. doing it, either). And I never broker with artists myself. I either buy from a listed price, or if a price is not listed on an artist’s website, say, I have someone else inquire about the price for me. I never want to get a deal, is what that’s about. I guess the whole point is that you don’t want to inflate the prices of an artist by writing about the work in order to turn a profit from your supposedly non-financially-interested opinion. I don’t steer clear entirely of collecting. But I am pretty wary.”

I also wanted to talk to Victoria Camblin, editor and artistic director of Art Papers, a magazine that (like this one) has an explicit conflict of interest policy. Camblin had some good advice about how to think through this issue:

“There are (or should be) policies in place at any art magazine, and the editorial staff there will have a clear answer as to what theirs are—so this is first and foremost a question of disclosure: communicate with your editors honestly about your relationship to the artist and/or gallery.

“As an editor, after a while you develop an internal ethical monitor. If something feels unsavory, you don’t go forward until you have found an approach that feels right.

“Artists, writers, collectors, and curators all work together in a highly collaborative professional community; often, one individual occupies several of these industry roles. Conflict-of-interest policies are important, but mustn’t stifle the work that might emerge from the intimacies of these connections. There are some creative and ethical ways that editors and writers can harness these relationships, nuancing and unpacking them by diversifying content styles, for instance, and thus building a disclosure into the final product. (A personal essay about why you were moved by the work enough to collect it, or how it has influenced your output as a writer, might not be a good fit for every art magazine, but may well find an appropriate niche outside of a ‘reviews’ section.)

“If you and your editor cannot find a way of editorializing this that works, then you cannot force it; you have to kill the piece. But you can write to your editor and suggest that they find a colleague to cover the fabulous show. If it’s a good fit for the publication, chances are the editor will have another writer for the job, or will be open to solid suggestions from you once you explain your relationship to the work.”

In the end, if you’re wrestling with the question, I’d say your instincts are good. Perceived conflict is as important as a real conflict, so bear in mind how your relationship to artists and/or their work will appear to your readers. Put your faith in truthful disclosure, and when in doubt, ask your editor. Don’t be afraid to walk away from a review—or to refrain from buying a work; your future credibility is more important than what’s hanging on your walls. Good luck!

I have an interview with a critic who sent me his questions in advance, and I found them to be leading and directive. How can I approach this type of conversation in a way where I can communicate what I feel is interesting about my work? For many artists, dealing with writers and art reviewers is an inevitable part of showing work. What are some tactics in general for making these conversations go well, for both interviewer and interviewee?

Julia Wachtel. Bleep, 2014; oil, flashe, acrylic ink on canvas; 60 x 73 in. Photo: David Brichford

Interviews can be tough even when the interviewer is sympathetic and savvy. Beyond the questions, so many other considerations are at play—including various hierarchies and a hunger to please your audience—that it can be difficult to think clearly enough to describe your own process. On top of that, if you feel the interviewer has an agenda that doesn’t match your own, the experience is potentially quite uncomfortable. But take heart, there are some strategies that you can use to boost your confidence and make the conversation more pleasant.

First, the basics: Research the journalist’s prior interviews and find out where yours will be published. Be aware that it will almost certainly be tailored for a specific audience (think Artforum versus a local newspaper), and even if you don’t wish to modify your answers for a particular readership, bear in mind that the conversation will be edited before publication. If you’re meeting in person, bring your laptop or iThing pre-loaded to your website—you might answer a question by discussing a piece that the interviewer hasn’t seen before, and images will aid you. Remember to take a slow, deep breath before you reply—and don’t worry how that might appear in the moment, because it’s the final publication that counts and in print no one hears you pause. Keep your answers concise and to the point.

But since you’ve already seen this interviewer’s questions and find them to be “leading and directive,” you’re going to have to be somewhat more Machiavellian than you ordinarily might. Remember former President George W. Bush? Journalists would ask him questions, and he would reply in a way that pushed his own agenda forward, even if it meant that the answer didn’t match the query. Here’s an example from a 2006 interview with Bill O’Reilly:

O’Reilly: Do you think Hillary Clinton is soft on terrorism?

Bush: I think—first of all it’s very important for me never to, you know, question anybody’s patriotism. I believe there’s a group of people here in Washington, however, who have a different view of this war. They view it as a law enforcement matter.

Notice how the question elicits a yes-or-no answer, but G.W.B. sidesteps it entirely, using it instead as an opportunity to introduce the notion of patriotism. If the Bush White House gave us anything (aside from bad governance and a forever war), it was an eight-year master class in evasive tactics. His administration was also expert at staying on message; in the same interview, Bush answers three successive questions with, “We don’t talk about techniques,” “I don’t want to talk about techniques,” and, “Well, one thing is that you can rest assured we’re not going to talk about the techniques we use in a public forum.”

Consider how the interview might serve your career and practice. When you take that little pause before replying, think about whether you can answer part of the question in a way that tells your story advantageously. To be clear, I’m not advocating for anyone to be evil, manipulative, or cynical, but if an interviewer has a set of assumptions that don’t serve the understanding of the work, then the artist should try to correct—though not necessarily control—the  message. If you’re doing a phone interview, you could even print out a cheat sheet with some key points that you want to communicate.

Interviews are sometimes intimidating, and even when they are fun, they are demanding. We want journalists to ask just the right questions that will allow us to present the best parts of our work and practices, highlight how articulate and brilliant we are, and make us look interesting and cool. But if that’s not happening, don’t be combative. Instead, focus on damage control: you can ask the critic how he/she sees your work, and then you’re free to respond with, “That’s interesting, because I’ve never considered that—I see my work as…” or some such. If the interviewer uses a particular description to ask about a piece and you don’t agree with the characterization, you can say, “I don’t really think about it like that. For me, it’s more about…” Feel free to contradict the interviewer—gently, politely—because in the end it makes for a more lively read; also, if this is going on the Internet then it will be up forever, so don’t hesitate to represent your work and practice as you see fit. Good luck!

An art critic who writes for a local newspaper recently approached me. He wants to review a recent show I installed at a local gallery. He is essentially asking me to provide him with my thoughts on my work and, after reading several of his articles, it seems as if he will just quote me at length rather than provide an actual review of my work. On one hand this appears to be an opportunity to put forth some of my own ideas (however small), but on the other it seems it will be a watered-down version of a review that serves more to fill a column than actually respond critically to a body of work. Should I indulge him in my eagerness to gain press attention or decline in hopes of a future proposal from a more attentive critic?

I applaud your sincerity and rectitude, but in this case they are somewhat misdirected. Understandably, you’d like your show to be reviewed by someone who will take the time to get to know the work and write up his or her own analysis and interpretation. Knowing that you’re not going to get it is a bit discouraging, but one could easily grow old and die while waiting for a “more attentive critic.” I don’t want you to second-guess your values but when opportunity knocks, open the damn door.

What you’ve got to keep in mind is that your own integrity is not at stake. The best you can do is work hard to make something you believe in. You’ve made the art and sent it out into the world with some background information to accompany it on its way. You’re not responsible for what other people do with that information. A local journalist who lacks imagination or initiative is not under your control.

Francesco Vezzoli. Installation view of Olga Forever! The Olga Picasso Family Album at Almine Rech Gallery.

When you’re in a quandary, sometimes it helps to do some thought experiments. Imagine a critic who always pans the work that she reviews. Would you give her the same information about your show, knowing that she might use it to underscore her various arguments about how and why your work sucks? I suspect you would, because you’d at least have the consolation that she was spending time with the work and paying attention. Now let’s try another scenario: Would it make a difference to you if the reason this critic quotes at length from the artist is because he doesn’t trust his own evaluation of artwork? What if, instead of being lazy (and perhaps somewhat disingenuous), he is simply insecure and fearful? And lastly, even though he has a record of quoting at length, can you be absolutely sure he will do the same in this instance? People do change, and we can hope that perhaps he will start with you.

Please don’t think I’m unsympathetic. There’s a well-known “critic” in my town who copies verbatim from press releases, which I discovered when I received a press release from a local gallery and then saw the same wording appear three days later in one of his “reviews.” Thinking that I must be mistaken, I compared the two side by side. As you might guess, they were practically identical, and I spent the next few days nursing a sludgy emotional mix of dismay and contempt. It’s disappointing to find that some of the people we entrust with the power to publicly consider and evaluate artwork are, in one way or another, just not doing their jobs.

Francesco Vezzoli. Olga Forever (Olga Picasso en mariée, Boisgeloup), 2012; oil on canvas and laserprint collage; 206 x 134 x 7 cm.

If you’re in this for the long haul, you’ll get your share of press, and other problems will arise. Someone will spell your name wrong, or misquote you, or fail to apprehend what you feel is the most important aspect of your work. In all cases, you should politely correct what you can and then just move on.

It’s something of a gross generalization to say this, but on the whole I believe we artists work hard. We want our artwork to be greeted with the same energy it took to make it. We want the work to be evaluated fairly and intelligently, on its own terms, and preferably both in print and online by a well-known critic who has a healthy share of Twitter followers—joking! (sort of). But if you wait for that perfect day it might never come. It’s okay for you to give this journalist some background information, even if it is carefully crafted to showcase your work in the best possible light. You’re also free to encourage this journalist to write more about his own take on the show. (“I’d love to hear your reaction to the work and I look forward to reading your opinions” or something similar.) Eventually this review will become just another line on your CV, and hopefully you’ll have moved on to a more interesting conversation about your work. Good luck!