If an artist is attempting to call attention to a particular issue that in some way either oppresses a group of people or includes imagery of unethical actions, is their artwork also unethical if they intentionally include or use oppressive tactics or graphic images to do so?

Eva Lake. Judd Montage No. 13, 2007; photomontage; 5 ¾ x 8 in.

There is no permanent, fixed equation that we can apply to art—especially art that intends to become activism—and I’m not amenable to making an ultimate pronouncement on work that exists as a hypothetical. It’s better to be aware of the concerns surrounding art and activism in general and proffer judgments on a case-by-case basis. An artist who wishes to take an activist stance in regard to an issue must think very carefully through the problem at hand.

I contacted a few artists that are currently making work that intends to be activist, but for the first time in the brief history of this column, not one of them responded. Perhaps they were afraid to go on record regarding the conflicts and contradictions their work presents? In any case, Anuradha Vikram, Curator of the Worth Ryder Art Gallery at UC Berkeley, kindly shed some light on this matter. She asks would-be activist-artists to ponder some art-world assumptions: “When seeking to call attention to any troubling issue, one key maxim to consider is that of the physician: ‘First, do no harm.’ Too often, artists seem to mistake demonstrating a set of conditions for critiquing them. If the work is replicating unethical behaviors, what is the artist doing besides perpetuating those behaviors? Perhaps, if one assumes that the context for art is a neutral one (the proverbial ‘white cube’), then it could be argued that by isolating and framing such actions, the artist makes the critique implicitly. However, if the last forty years of art-world controversy have taught us anything, it is that ‘neutrality’ is often interchangeable with ‘privilege.’ Re-creating oppression within a space of privilege is simply oppressive. A critique needs to go farther than that, and a sophisticated critique does not need to replicate such dynamics in order to unpack them.”

I agree, and can’t emphasize that last sentence enough: A sophisticated critique is what any artist-activist should be working toward. I also think the issue of commodification is important here. Can art truly make a change if it doesn’t materially aid the victims whose cause it purports to advance? If it only “raises awareness” of an issue by replicating abuse, it’s possible that its main consequence is simply to turn the expression of subjugation into an exchangeable commodity (for money, status, notoriety, etc.), which primarily benefits the artist or the art establishment. And on a personal level, if your activism turns you into a celebrity but does nothing to change the brutality you supposedly decry, your innocent intentions become worse than worldly cynicism. Emancipation cannot be achieved by oppressive means.

Related reading: groundswellcollective.com and the books Art & Agenda and Wild Fire: Art as Activism.

Andrea Bowers. Help the Work Along, 2012; installation view, Susanne Vielmetter Los Angeles Projects. Photo: Robert Wedemeyer.

Dear President Beal, Provost Carland, and members of the Administration Negotiating Team,

I have been an adjunct for all my teaching life. For years, this was a professional choice, as it allowed me time and flexibility to pursue the other, equally important aspects of my practice–writing and publishing poetry and criticism, and editing magazines. I’ve written three books and co-authored, contributed to, and edited many more; I’ve written for the Guggenheim Museum, the Whitney Museum, Independent Curators International, Creative Time, The New Yorker, BOMB, Aperture, and many others. I’ve won prizes, grants, and fellowships–I write from a residency right now–and I’ve been part of the editorial team at two artist-run publications, Fence and Cabinet. I have a piece in a national magazine (The Nation) going out this week. And I’ve taught across the spectrum of institutions, from the Ivy League to art schools (RISD and Parsons in addition to CCA) to the Bard Prison Initiative.

I know perfectly well that my adjunct colleagues at CCA and at each of the other schools I’ve named could write similar lists. Every long-term adjunct I’ve ever met has a wildly impressive, expansive, and rigorous record of engagement in her field. Often she–my generalized adjunct colleague–excels in several fields at once.

It’s only in the last few years that I have felt the sharp edge of the adjuncting system cutting into my livelihood, and into my sense of the integrity of university education in the US. I used to take pleasure in assuring students that they could become artists, work as freelancers, and thrive: I’d done it, and so had most of my friends. You are artists yourselves, so doubtless you can understand how important it has been to be able to tell students, with absolute honesty, that the path of the creative intellectual and imaginative craftsperson remains open to them in contemporary culture, regardless of their economic and family backgrounds, despite the pressures of a capitalist-realist system whose internal logic reduces every public effort to market value.

I don’t like encouraging students to be bold and risky in their work, when they are burdened with debt and their teachers scrounge to make ends meet.

It’s painful to write the same email again and again–perhaps you know the one–telling a student and/or a colleague–one after the other–that I understand why this or that deadline or meeting-time has to be shifted because they’ve suddenly found they are being evicted.

It’s disheartening to explain to my students why I simply cannot afford to offer them another free studio visit, editorial session, letter of reference, reading list, extra-curricular-project mentorship, or what-should-I-do-with-my-life conversation. And it’s unnerving to offer that uncompensated time again anyway, as if I could absorb into my own livelihood-energy-thought the discrepancy, the shortfall, that the devaluation of labor in the university system generates; as if I could absorb that systemic asymmetry into my own work so that students can be buffered from it, sheltered in the illusion that their education is an expansive resource generously offered.

It’s shocking when a brilliant colleague tells me–as one did a few weeks ago–that she is leaving teaching altogether, because the financial pressures of the adjuncting system are destabilizing her family.

I do, of course, love hearing from students that their education has been invaluable, that my class and the classes taught by my colleagues have changed their lives.

But it’s upsetting to know that while students too often pay more than they can afford for this experience, CCA (like so many other schools) pays adjuncts less than a living wage, with no job security, and only limited and capriciously implemented procedures toward advancement.

I hate telling students who want to teach that this is what they can expect in future.

It’s impossible not to see that the dearth of faculty of color–and of students of color–and of adequate support systems for students of color–at CCA (as at so many other art schools) is directly related to the precarity of the profession for contingent faculty.

I am happy to work for an institution whose mission statement centers social justice, innovation, and “making art that matters.”

But it’s demoralizing to understand that these commitments to social justice, innovation, serious cultural and political contribution, collegial respect, and pedagogical wholism do not currently ensure equitable labor relations for the adjunct and lecturer faculty.

I wish I didn’t feel anxiety and trepidation about speaking like this, to the leaders of my institution, about practices and tendencies that extend far beyond our institution, that affect all of us who teach and care about teaching and learning.

And I don’t like hearing that CCA’s lawyer told the CCA Adjunct Action bargaining team “fuck you” not once but four times in a recent meeting. It’s startling to have it reported that he told women in the room to stop talking. It’s bewildering that he instructed members of the Administration negotiating team not to examine the ratified union contracts from St. Mary’s, Mills, and Dominican University.

I support my union bargaining team and urge the College administration to negotiate in good faith, in a timely fashion, with respect. These are, after all, the collaborative ethics that we all strive to instill in our students as makers of culture.

With best regards, in the spirit of collegiality,
Frances Richard

Sigmar Polke. $-Bild, 1971; paint on fabric.

I espouse fair labor initiatives like W.A.G.E.* to pay artists. However, my own projects are often un- or under-funded; if a stipend covers a significant portion of my expenses, that seems like a success, even if I take a loss on my own time and labor. As a consequence, I’m unable to pay myself, much less collaborators, contributors, or volunteers. In return, I try to offer sincere thanks and credit lines, as well as social media links. First, how do I navigate this paradox? Am I being a hypocrite? What more could I do to support fellow artists? How will I know if I am taking artists’ energy in exchange for an exploitative promise of “exposure”?

Nearly every artist I know navigates this ambiguous and complex territory in some way or another. The paradox you experience operates on a tacit, institutionalized presumption—that artists’ work is a “labor of love” and consequently our primary goal is to have that work “exposed” to the world. This logic dictates the primary model of success and failure within the art world (cf. Melanie Gillman’s “If Other Professions Were Paid Like Artists”). It also plays into the affective conditions of being an artist, namely that a legitimate artist should have an obsessive impulse to create that suppresses all other drives (including the ones to pay rent and eat); ergo, if you care about compensation, you must not be a real artist.

To combat conventional thinking, you must advocate for yourself at every opportunity. To start, each time you are offered a gig that doesn’t mention payment up front, you can ask, “Is there a stipend?” Importantly, the act of asking raises awareness of the problem. You can take this further: “Thanks for inviting me to be part of this exhibition. As you may know, I work with collaborators. Is there room in the budget to compensate them for their time and labor?” The answer may be “no,” but you’ll have shined a light on a dark and oft-unspoken issue.

Since you mention W.A.G.E. specifically, I thought it would be best to to see what they would say about your question (they requested to be named as a bloc). But before I move on to their thoughts, I want to point out that an uncompensated exchange can still be ethical. I acknowledge the irony of asking arts workers to contribute their time and energy to this column for free and, in fact, should note that in the three years that I’ve been writing “Help Desk,” I’ve never paid a contributor for a quote (likewise, no one has ever asked for a stipend). Like you, I offer my gratitude; obvious credit in the column text; and, links, tags, and write-ups on social media. And similarly to arts work, writing an advice column isn’t famous for being a path to considerable profit, but I’m willing to put in my time and labor because I sincerely want to help artists and the art community, and I suspect that the contributors have felt the same. As W.A.G.E. notes below, “that is part of how solidarity and community are built within the field.”

Now on to the thoughts from W.A.G.E.:

“To answer these questions, it first has to be recognized that the art economy and its inherent exploitation of the labor of artists makes peer-to-peer exploitation both inevitable and necessary.

“Without the provision of funding for individual artists from government or private foundations, artists naturally look to art institutions for material support in the production of their work. However, because there are no standards and guidelines for compensation, the support artists might receive falls profoundly short of what is needed not only to make the work, but more importantly what is needed to survive in the most fundamental material sense.

“It should therefore come as no surprise that artists turn to their peers for support, and in doing so they may inadvertently replicate the practices of institutions by enlisting friends and colleagues to work for the promise of exposure. For those artists who don’t have access to the kinds of resources enabled by class privilege, there are very few other options available.

“But it must also be understood that in their failure to provide adequate or consistent support for artists, nonprofit institutions themselves replicate the funding practices of the grant makers that support them. Institutions receive funding as charity and on the basis of whether their programming merits the gift of the funder. In turn, institutions arbitrarily dispense fees to artists on the same basis: as charity and on merit, instead of as subcontracted labor and for the content and services that artists provide, and without which these institutions would cease to function.

“An art institution may argue that it doesn’t receive enough funding to cover all of the costs incurred by its operations and that is why it can’t pay fees. W.A.G.E. asserts that if an institution can’t afford to both compensate artists and maintain the scope and ambition of its programming, then its programming should be scaled back and slowed down—paying for artists’ labor is part of the cost of doing business.

“So if the question being asked is about how artists can resist replicating the practices that result from a broken system that increasingly has little interest in even appearing to redistribute wealth equitably, perhaps the same logic and expectation should be applied to artists within their own practices. Maybe artists should also scale back their production and ambition if either necessitates practicing the same forms of exploitation that institutions can and should be held accountable for.

“There is a very simple but important question behind the equally important question of when it is wrong to exploit one’s peers, which is: When should I get paid? This question regularly arises in relation to institutions, but also in relation to anyone with whom one engages in a labor relation. It’s another way of asking: When is it work? The simple answer is that you should get paid when someone is profiting from your labor. If you’re not getting paid, then you’re being exploited.

“However, providing content or services to a friend without being compensated does not mean that one is being exploited. If the terms of the exchange are mutually agreed upon, and if one person isn’t immediately monetarily profiting from the labor of the other, then it may well be a fair exchange, and one that is part of how solidarity and community are built within the field. W.A.G.E. advocates for equitable compensation, not for the total monetization and commodification of every aspect of our lives; we leave that to neoliberalism.

“How much you should get paid is another matter, and one that W.A.G.E. takes up through W.A.G.E. Certification, a program that recognizes those nonprofits voluntarily paying fees that meet minimum payment standards, as established by W.A.G.E. This program provides hyper-definition and clarity around the questions of artistic labor, and offers a model for a more equitable means of resource distribution within a multi-billion-dollar industry that profits from the unpaid labor of artists, as well as from the many others who work within its supply chain.”

You can take all of this into consideration the next time you’re dealing with a project that will require the work of others. Even when you can’t provide a stipend for your collaborators, you can have an honest conversation about the transaction. Be transparent about the funding that’s available to you and what it will cost to produce the work. If you can’t give your fellow workers a stipend, then offer a trade. If someone volunteers their labor, pay that good energy forward for a worthy project when you can. And if some artists turn you down because you can’t remunerate them, thank them for their honesty and respect their opinions on what constitutes exploitation. Good luck!

Help Desk is an arts-advice column that demystifies practices for artists, writers, curators, collectors, patrons, and the general public. Submit your questions anonymously here. All submissions become the property of Daily Serving.

*Working Artists and the Greater Economy (W.A.G.E.) is “a New York-based activist organization focused on regulating the payment of artist fees by nonprofit art institutions, and establishing a sustainable labor relation between artists and the institutions that subcontract their labor” (see http://www.wageforwork.com).

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.

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 espouse fair labor initiatives like W.A.G.E. to pay artists.[1] However, my own projects are often un- or under-funded; if a stipend covers a significant portion of my expenses, that seems like a success, even if I take a loss on my own time and labor. As a consequence, I’m unable to pay myself, much less collaborators, contributors, or volunteers. In return, I try to offer sincere thanks and credit lines, as well as social media links. First, how do I navigate this paradox? Am I being a hypocrite? What more could I do to support fellow artists? How will I know if I am taking artists’ energy in exchange for an exploitative promise of “exposure”?

Sigmar Polke. $-Bild, 1971; paint on fabric.

Nearly every artist I know navigates this ambiguous and complex territory in some way or another. The paradox you experience operates on a tacit, institutionalized presumption—that artists’ work is a “labor of love” and consequently our primary goal is to have that work “exposed” to the world. This logic dictates the primary model of success and failure within the art world (cf. Melanie Gillman’s “If Other Professions Were Paid Like Artists”). It also plays into the affective conditions of being an artist, namely that a legitimate artist should have an obsessive impulse to create that suppresses all other drives (including the ones to pay rent and eat); ergo, if you care about compensation, you must not be a real artist.

To combat conventional thinking, you must advocate for yourself at every opportunity. To start, each time you are offered a gig that doesn’t mention payment up front, you can ask, “Is there a stipend?” Importantly, the act of asking raises awareness of the problem. You can take this further: “Thanks for inviting me to be part of this exhibition. As you may know, I work with collaborators. Is there room in the budget to compensate them for their time and labor?” The answer may be “no,” but you’ll have shined a light on a dark and oft-unspoken issue.

Since you mention W.A.G.E. specifically, I thought it would be best to to see what they would say about your question (they requested to be named as a bloc). But before I move on to their thoughts, I want to point out that an uncompensated exchange can still be ethical. I acknowledge the irony of asking arts workers to contribute their time and energy to this column for free and, in fact, should note that in the three years that I’ve been writing “Help Desk,” I’ve never paid a contributor for a quote (likewise, no one has ever asked for a stipend). Like you, I offer my gratitude; obvious credit in the column text; and, links, tags, and write-ups on social media. And similarly to arts work, writing an advice column isn’t famous for being a path to considerable profit, but I’m willing to put in my time and labor because I sincerely want to help artists and the art community, and I suspect that the contributors have felt the same. As W.A.G.E. notes below, “that is part of how solidarity and community are built within the field.”

Now on to the thoughts from W.A.G.E.:

“To answer these questions, it first has to be recognized that the art economy and its inherent exploitation of the labor of artists makes peer-to-peer exploitation both inevitable and necessary.

“Without the provision of funding for individual artists from government or private foundations, artists naturally look to art institutions for material support in the production of their work. However, because there are no standards and guidelines for compensation, the support artists might receive falls profoundly short of what is needed not only to make the work, but more importantly what is needed to survive in the most fundamental material sense.

“It should therefore come as no surprise that artists turn to their peers for support, and in doing so they may inadvertently replicate the practices of institutions by enlisting friends and colleagues to work for the promise of exposure. For those artists who don’t have access to the kinds of resources enabled by class privilege, there are very few other options available.

“But it must also be understood that in their failure to provide adequate or consistent support for artists, nonprofit institutions themselves replicate the funding practices of the grant makers that support them. Institutions receive funding as charity and on the basis of whether their programming merits the gift of the funder. In turn, institutions arbitrarily dispense fees to artists on the same basis: as charity and on merit, instead of as subcontracted labor and for the content and services that artists provide, and without which these institutions would cease to function.

“An art institution may argue that it doesn’t receive enough funding to cover all of the costs incurred by its operations and that is why it can’t pay fees. W.A.G.E. asserts that if an institution can’t afford to both compensate artists and maintain the scope and ambition of its programming, then its programming should be scaled back and slowed down—paying for artists’ labor is part of the cost of doing business.

“So if the question being asked is about how artists can resist replicating the practices that result from a broken system that increasingly has little interest in even appearing to redistribute wealth equitably, perhaps the same logic and expectation should be applied to artists within their own practices. Maybe artists should also scale back their production and ambition if either necessitates practicing the same forms of exploitation that institutions can and should be held accountable for.

“There is a very simple but important question behind the equally important question of when it is wrong to exploit one’s peers, which is: When should I get paid? This question regularly arises in relation to institutions, but also in relation to anyone with whom one engages in a labor relation. It’s another way of asking: When is it work? The simple answer is that you should get paid when someone is profiting from your labor. If you’re not getting paid, then you’re being exploited.

“However, providing content or services to a friend without being compensated does not mean that one is being exploited. If the terms of the exchange are mutually agreed upon, and if one person isn’t immediately monetarily profiting from the labor of the other, then it may well be a fair exchange, and one that is part of how solidarity and community are built within the field. W.A.G.E. advocates for equitable compensation, not for the total monetization and commodification of every aspect of our lives; we leave that to neoliberalism.

“How much you should get paid is another matter, and one that W.A.G.E. takes up through W.A.G.E. Certification, a program that recognizes those nonprofits voluntarily paying fees that meet minimum payment standards, as established by W.A.G.E. This program provides hyper-definition and clarity around the questions of artistic labor, and offers a model for a more equitable means of resource distribution within a multi-billion-dollar industry that profits from the unpaid labor of artists, as well as from the many others who work within its supply chain.”

You can take all of this into consideration the next time you’re dealing with a project that will require the work of others. Even when you can’t provide a stipend for your collaborators, you can have an honest conversation about the transaction. Be transparent about the funding that’s available to you and what it will cost to produce the work. If you can’t give your fellow workers a stipend, then offer a trade. If someone volunteers their labor, pay that good energy forward for a worthy project when you can. And if some artists turn you down because you can’t remunerate them, thank them for their honesty and respect their opinions on what constitutes exploitation. Good luck!

[1] Working Artists and the Greater Economy (W.A.G.E.) is “a New York-based activist organization focused on regulating the payment of artist fees by nonprofit art institutions, and establishing a sustainable labor relation between artists and the institutions that subcontract their labor” (see http://www.wageforwork.com).

I’m a young curator and an arts writer with a museum job, but like everyone in the world, I can always use extra money. I’ve been approached before about “ghostwriting” for more established curators who get asked to write catalog essays for galleries and small exhibition projects. In general, I feel weird but not too weird about this—after all, I like the practice and the opportunity to think about an artist’s work that I might not otherwise consider or know of. Oftentimes, it’s not work I’ve seen, and my main point of contact with it is via the internet and whatever the gallery can send, which is in and of itself a problem. I guess my question is two-pronged. On the one hand it’s an ethical quandry: I’ve done a few of these now, and I appreciate the practice and the cash, but sometimes I feel odd about the whole masquerade (though not as odd as other people seem to; I guess that’s the money talking). On the other hand, it’s practical: as someone building a writing career, I would like to indicate these projects somehow on my CV, but of course if someone wanted to actually look, they wouldn’t find my name associated in the subsequent print publications, etc. What are your thoughts?

Pierre Huyghe. The Host and the Cloud, 2009-2010. Museum Ludwig, Cologne.

Let me run this down very simply: Your questions are, “Is this practice unethical?” and “Can I find a way to claim this on my CV?” My answers are a correspondingly straightforward yes and no, respectively. But let’s explore this matter, and its potential consequences, in more detail.

To be honest, I was shocked by your dilemma—fifteen years in the art world, and I’d never heard of such a thing! To me, a curator is someone who loves art and artists so much that he or she would not perpetrate a fraud in order to avoid writing about them. Wide-eyed and scandalized, I emailed quite a few friends and acquaintances to see if they shared my amazement; most respondents did. One of them, a curator who has had a long career with many institutional appointments, told me, “Your email makes me feel naïve, as I’ve never heard of such a practice. The honorarium for a catalog essay is so modest I can’t imagine how this could be lucrative for both the curator and the ghost, but that’s a different question. Taking inspiration from “The Ethicist” in the New York Times, I’d say your writer is a professional cheat and liar who is asking for your blessing to deceive the commissioner of the writing, and the public that reads the piece believing it to be the work of a noted writer, and to get paid for it, and to get credit for it. To use a word that has migrated from Yiddish to English, that’s chutzpah.” These are perhaps stronger words than I would have used, but the basic sentiment is the same: You can have the money, or you can have a clean conscience and a decent CV, but not both.

However, the very next person I asked—who also works at an institution—merely shrugged. In a private conversation, he told me, “I’ve done this. My boss isn’t a writer, so I write the catalog essays for our shows.” To my surprise, he seemed to be rather sang froid about this, but when I pressed him for more information, he also noted that it’s a regular part of his job; that his superior is a director and not a curator; and that he also regularly interviews the director and uses those notes for the essays. Although I was gratified to have found someone who was familiar with catalog-essay ghostwriting, your situations are dissimilar enough to make me feel that there’s no comparison.

Then I got lucky and found someone who had worked as a writer and curator, and who lived through a situation akin to yours. Here are her thoughts:

“However good the money, the benefits of getting paid to do this kind of writing will be short-lived in comparison to the longer-term regret this young curator/writer will feel. People who do this will never be able to attach their names to the work, or promote it as their own, especially on their CVs. That is the point of ghostwriting: The writer remains invisible and authorship is claimed by someone else. The contracting curators will not only be able to publish the work as theirs for an exhibition catalog, they will be able to use this text in any other capacity they choose: for a subsequent magazine article or guest lecture, all of which they will receive additional compensation for while the ghostwriter remains anonymous.

“It is highly unadvisable for this ghostwriter to include the work on a CV. The interviewing organization will quickly discover that s/he is not listed as the author and logically assume our ghostwriter to be a liar with a padded CV. Admitting that s/he was a ghostwriter will not amend the situation; it will only convey a willingness to participate in unethical practices. And there is no question: This practice is unethical. Not because of the restrictions it places on the writer, but more importantly because of the deception created for the artist. The artist and/or exhibiting venue has contracted with more-established curators based on their reputations, knowledge, and writing expertise, but they are not getting what they paid for. The artist will promote the text to represent their practice and hang their reputation in part on the curator’s. Any subsequent revelation of fraud will render it useless to the artist.

“I was the unwilling ghostwriter for multiple exhibition essays while working as a curatorial assistant at a museum. My research, which I was required to present as drafts, appeared unaltered, word for word, in the final published essays. Not only am I unable to claim authorship of these texts, they have subsequently appeared in books and other publications. I felt physically ill the day that I opened up a copy of Parkett with an article about an artist I had worked with during this time, only to realize that they were my words on the page, and someone else listed as author. It was a terrible feeling, and I don’t encourage its perpetuation.”

Ultimately, I’m guessing the money must be pretty damn good if you’ve been willing to sacrifice your honesty thus far (especially to yourself, because it’s obvious that this “writing experience” is not “practical” if you can’t claim it). You’ll have to decide which is more important: your bank balance, or your integrity and future as a writer. If you follow this advice and stop participating in these deceitful practices, you’ll definitely be poorer for a while, but perhaps you can contact the curators you’ve worked with in the past and ask them to recommend some publications that pay writers for essays and reviews. Maybe they’d even put in a good word for you. If you can get some paying gigs that will publish your name on the work and send you a check, you’ll be doing better for yourself in the long run. Good luck!

This week’s column is illustrated with collages by Eva Lake, whose solo show “Judd Women Targets” is currently on view at Frosch & Portmann in New York, through June 3, 2012.

Your counselor, hard at work.

If an artist is attempting to call attention to a particular issue that in some way either oppresses a group of people or includes imagery of unethical actions, is their artwork also unethical if they intentionally include or use oppressive tactics or graphic images to do so?

There is no permanent, fixed equation that we can apply to art—especially art that intends to become activism—and I’m not amenable to making an ultimate pronouncement on work that exists as a hypothetical. It’s better to be aware of the concerns surrounding art and activism in general and proffer judgments on a case-by-case basis. An artist who wishes to take an activist stance in regard to an issue must think very carefully through the problem at hand.

Eva Lake, Target No. 32 (Wayne Thiebaud Painting), 2008. Photomontage, 11 1/2 x 11 1/2 inches

I contacted a few artists that are currently making work that intends to be activist, but for the first time in the brief history of this column, not one of them responded. Perhaps they were afraid to go on record regarding the conflicts and contradictions their work presents? In any case, Anuradha Vikram, Curator of the Worth Ryder Art Gallery at UC Berkeley, kindly shed some light on this matter. She asks would-be activist-artists to ponder some art-world assumptions: “When seeking to call attention to any troubling issue, one key maxim to consider is that of the physician: ‘first, do no harm.’ Too often, artists seem to mistake demonstrating a set of conditions for critiquing them. If the work is replicating unethical behaviors, what is the artist doing besides perpetuating those behaviors? Perhaps, if one assumes that the context for art is a neutral one (the proverbial ‘white cube’) then it could be argued that by isolating and framing such actions, the artist makes the critique implicitly. However, if the last 40 years of art-world controversy have taught us anything, it is that ‘neutrality’ is often interchangeable with ‘privilege.’ Recreating oppression within a space of privilege is simply oppressive. A critique needs to go farther than that, and a sophisticated critique does not need to replicate such dynamics in order to unpack them.”

I agree, and can’t emphasize that last sentence enough: a sophisticated critique is what any artist-activist should be working toward. I also think the issue of commodification is important here. Can art truly make a change if it doesn’t materially aid the victims whose cause it purports to advance? If it only “raises awareness” of an issue by replicating abuse, it’s possible that its main consequence is simply to turn the expression of subjugation into an exchangeable commodity (for money, status, notoriety, etc.) which primarily benefits the artist or the art establishment. And on a personal level, if your activism turns you into a celebrity but does nothing to change the brutality you supposedly decry, your innocent intentions become worse than worldly cynicism. Emancipation cannot be achieved by oppressive means.

Related reading: groundswellcollective.com and the books Art & Agenda and Wild Fire: Art as Activism.

Eva Lake, Judd Montage No. 6, 2007. Photomontage, 8 ½ x 7 ¾

I am in my junior year of a BFA program at a university that I love. My grades have always been stellar, and I feel empowered to make work that extends far beyond the minimal requirements of assignments – work that I would be proud to exhibit; however, my work has been rejected from several local juried shows recently (in the past, I have been accepted to shows and even sold work). In addition, one of my main professors has been giving me lower grades than I am used to. I’m open to criticism, and I know I have a lot to learn, but the direction seems to be simply that I’m not making the work that they expect. 

There is a small part of me that wants to conform and get good grades so I can move on to an MFA program elsewhere. The louder, bossier side of me believes that my Postmodern ideas are valid, but happen to be inconsistent with the traditional Modernist teaching methods of the faculty at my university. Can you give me some ideas about how to make the most of my education without burning bridges or officially ruining my transcript?

There are really three parts to your query: how to make the most of your time in school now, the correlation between grades and MFA programs, and the larger idea of the feedback you’ve been getting. I think they’re all related in the end, but let’s deal with the MFA part first because it might be the easiest.

Eva Lake, Judd Montage No. 1, 2007. Photomontage, 7 ¾ x 8 ¼

My understanding of the MFA admissions process (which I went through in 2009) is that it is heavily weighted toward the quality of the applicant’s work, her CV, her recommendations and how she performs in the interview, more or less in that order. Unlike medical school, undergraduate grades don’t really count for much when applying for the MFA. I confirmed this with one department chair at a well-known art school in a Midwestern city (all my experts requested anonymity).

Another department head, this one from an art school on the east coast, said, “First and foremost is the portfolio! This seems a rule and something that can be applied across the board. If the work is strong, other things become secondary.” My third expert, a painting chair from a well-regarded school in California, said, “Strong, well-documented work and a well-written statement are 90% of the battle.” Some MFA programs do have a minimum GPA requirement, but it doesn’t sound as though you’re in danger of getting an F. So on one hand, it seems that you don’t have to worry about your grades if you only consider them in aid of going for the MFA later.

Eva Lake, Judd Montage No. 17, 2011. Photomontage, 6 ¼ x 9 ½

However, your question touches on larger issues. It seems like your prior work was more successful in the past, earning you good grades and exhibitions alike. Your newer work isn’t being met with the same regard. There could be some good reasons for that: it might be that the work still needs to be developed (it’s new, after all), or that it doesn’t fit in with the status quo of your Modernist milieu, or any number of other possibilities. There’s only one way to find out for sure, and that’s to get people into your studio to see the work and talk with you about it. Here’s where we come to the subject of how to make the most of your time now.

If you’re a regular reader, you may have noticed that I’m an ardent advocate for following your own course. I think that if you want to make this work, you should. I’ll always stand by your right to define yourself and your work on your own terms. However, passion alone doesn’t necessarily make good art and it’s your charge to determine if your new direction shows promise or not. How can you do that? By making a concerted effort to have as many conversations about the work as possible over the next year. Begin this process with your own professors, including the one who has been giving you lesser grades. Have you asked this person directly what drives his decisions regarding your lower marks? Asking someone to explain their grading process is not the same as whining for an A; just be blunt: “I noticed that my grades are lower than before, and I’m not sure I understand why. Can you please walk me through your decision?” If nothing else, you’ll clear the air with this person and figure out if you want to work with him during your final year of school.

Eva Lake, Judd Montage No. 13, 2007. Photomontage, 5 ¾ x 8

While this is a good place to start, I suggest you expand the field. If your suspicion is that the new work simply goes against the grain of the academic atmosphere, then you must investigate this hypothesis by requesting studio visits with artists who are not part of your university’s faculty. Are there visiting artists or lecturers you can contact? Are there local people (artists working in your medium, gallerists, or independent curators) that you can approach? Write them all an email asking for a visit and explain your situation: you’re not looking for a show, you’re trying to get some non-academic feedback on new work. These visits should be absolutely candid. Say what you’ve told me about your prior work versus your new work and its reception at school. Ask these people to be honest and direct. It sounds to me like you can take it, and you don’t want to waste your time.

Before I wrap up, I want to say something about the MFA and graduate school in general. Don’t go straight from the BFA to the MFA. Unlike undergraduate studies, graduate programs are entirely self-directed, and two years goes by very quickly. The only way to make the most of a graduate program is to go in knowing what you don’t know so that you can ask the right questions while you are there. This requires a level of maturity and self-knowledge that can only be gained through living in the real world and negotiating a life as an artist outside the support system of school. Get your BFA, make a studio life for yourself, work on your oeuvre and your CV, and then apply for the MFA when your portfolio is so dazzling that it could blind an admissions panel to a string of Cs on your transcript.