Rotund World
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Cock-and-Bull
As we were saying, it’s a hot time in the old town tonight. Every arts scribe on the avenue meets your gaze with the same haggard shrug. ¡Cabron! There is so effing much to see. Unless you labor in the offices of the island’s daily newspapers, where instead of going out you slouch behind your expanse of polished oak, furiously perusing the flood tide of badly-worded press releases and snarky, slang-encoded blogs, trying to get a clue. And then, with a heavy heart you pretend to write. The island’s biggest daily has lately been fairly bombarding us with verbiage about the art scene, but by and large it spends little time making critical distinctions or doing analysis of any kind. Whether the artist is laying out the arc of a hard-won, career-long trajectory or lobbing easy postgrad one-liners, readers get treated to the same three pages of earnest —or in the worst of cases, mock-literary—hooey. The island art scene shows no sign of losing its remarkable fizz any time soon, and someone at the paper should have the sense to take its true measure. Sounds like a job for an art critic.

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