AICAnada il y a cinquante ans

René VIAU

Bordeaux, septembre 1968. En clôture de la XXe assemblée de l’AICA, la section canadienne, par la voix de son président Laurent Lamy, propose, après les pays scandinaves en 1969, le Canada comme lieu de rencontre de la prochaine assemblée. Le rapport de la XXe Assemblée générale rappelle les perspectives que trace Lamy. « Nous aimerions faire de cette assemblée une assemblée tournée vers la réalité du Canada et de l’Amérique du Nord. Nous aimerions circuler de Montréal à Québec et si nos moyens le permettent, jusqu’à Vancouver. » Laurent Lamy souhaite que les Américains, qui n’avaient envoyé à Bordeaux aucun délégué, soient davantage présents.

De concert avec le Secrétariat d’État canadien, la Galerie nationale du Canada apporte son concours extraordinaire à la mise sur pied du congrès au Canada. Avec la collaboration de Mary Flechter du ministère des Affaires extérieures du Canada, Guy Viau est très actif au sein de son organisation. Critique et directeur du nouveau Centre culturel canadien à Paris, Guy Viau fait partie des neuf vice-présidents internationaux du directoire d’AICA international présidé par René Berger qui vient remplacer Jacques Lassaigne, frappé par la maladie.

« L’organisation d’une telle assemblée comporte un travail qui peut s’évaluer en kilos et en mètres. Kilos pour le poids des copies accumulées. Mètres pour la longueur des liasses de télex », rappelle René Berger à Montréal, en séance inaugurale de la XXIIe Assemblée générale, le lundi 17 août. [1]À cela s’ajoutent des milliers de kilomètres à parcourir. Le programme est « extraordinairement copieux », selon René Berger. Au colloque, assemblée et « talk » s’ajoutent cocktails, dîners et réceptions, visites de galeries, de musées, d’ateliers. « On avait greffé au congrès une dimension touristique », s’étonne encore aujourd’hui le critique d’art Normand Thériault. À Montréal, se souvient Thériault, les participants ont eu droit à une visite guidée des principales attractions de la ville : le Jardin botanique, le site d’Expo 67, Montréal souterrain. Ce qui n’empêche pas Jeanine Warnod, dans le premier texte sur Montréal d’une série d’articles liés au congrès et à son périple au Canada, de documenter l’action du comité des citoyens de Milton-Park pour endiguer le mégaprojet des promoteurs immobiliers de la Cité Concordia. Ces luttes urbaines ont été étudiées par le sociologue Manuel Castells[2].

À l’automne 1970, la revue montréalaise Vie des Arts fait paraître un reportage photographique sur le congrès. À la sortie d’un autocar, les congressistes se rassemblent au Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal[3]. On reconnaît certaines figures de la scène montréalaise d’alors. Gilles Hénault, poète et directeur du Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal ; Guy Viau et Laurent Lamy; Normand Thériault ; Andrée Paradis ; Fernande Saint-Martin ; des artistes comme François Dallegret ou Guido Molinari, un des représentants du Canada à la Biennale de Venise en 1968. Seize nouvelles adhésions viennent d’enrichir la section canadienne, forte maintenant d’une soixantaine de sociétaires. Ses effectifs au début des années 1960 se comptaient sur les doigts de la main.

Venus de 42 pays, les critiques se regroupent. Choisis un peu au hasard, quelques noms : de l’Espagne, Alexandre Cirici-Pelicer ; de l’Italie, Germano Celant ; de la France, Gilberte Martin-Méry, Pierre Gaudibert, Pierre Restany, Georges Boudaille, Guy Weelen, Michel Ragon et Jean-Jacques Lévêque.

Comptes-rendus de la XXIIe Assemblée générale. AICA Montréal, août 1970. Avec en couverture la photographie d’une performance de l’artiste de Vancouver Michael Morris qui entoure de ruban bleu certains congressistes.

Mardi en deuxième séance, l’assemblée générale se penche sur une enquête internationale placée sous la direction du Suédois Sven Sandström. 10 000 questionnaires avaient été envoyés à des bibliothèques, musées, institutions publiques et privés détenant des documents sur l’art du XXe siècle. L’enquête en collaboration avec l’UNESCO vise à coordonner à travers le monde la conservation des « archives de l’art contemporain ». « L’art se fait si rapidement et dans des conditions souvent hachées, qu’il est apparu de plus en plus nécessaire de déceler les moyens par lesquels on pourrait rendre cette documentation sensible sur un plan mondial, le but est donc de créer la meilleure méthodologie pour obtenir sur l’art moderne une documentation aussi complète que possible », d’expliquer René Berger[4]. L’ambition est de pouvoir repérer et enregistrer jusqu’au plus éphémère. « Si le critique d’art, selon Michel Conil-Lacoste, assume désormais la fonction de chartiste de l’immédiat, c’est afin de préparer la mémoire de l’avenir. »[5] À la suite d’une consultation estivale sous l’égide du Conseil des Arts du Canada avec des artistes et critiques dont Normand Thériault, Guy Viau et Laurent Lamy, conseillés par Jean Boggs, directrice de la Galerie nationale du Canada, et Brydon Smith, conservateur en art contemporain, avaient précisé le thème du colloque et choisi les conférenciers invités. La participation de personnalités internationales telles que Rudolf Arnheim, Abraham Moles, Harold M. Rosenberg, Marshall McLuhan et Lawrence Alloway avait été entérinée à Oslo, à la fin août 1969.

Après Montréal et une visite à Québec se tient en week-end à Ottawa le colloque de ce 2e Congrès extraordinaire placé sous le thème Art et Perception. Psychologue et gestaltiste s’il en fut, Rudolph Arnheim est alors fortement associé à l’Op Art et au minimalisme. Son livre, La Pensée visuelle, publié en 1969, connaît à l’époque un grand retentissement dans le monde anglo-saxon. Arnheim reprend dans sa conférence les grandes lignes de cet ouvrage. Au service de l’histoire de l’art, la science nous aide afin à décrypter ce qu’est une image et à établir comment le sens visuel se transmet et nous informe sur ce qui est observé. Mais attention, prévient Arnheim : « Une stricte lecture phénoménale simplifiant à l’extrême l’objet du regardeur peut créer une impression aussi erronée que l’emphase à vouloir y interpréter et révéler des points de vue insoupçonnés. Je suis fasciné de constater jusqu’à quel point on peut disserter à partir d’une œuvre d’art de ce qui n’est pas là, si ce n’est le reflet de nos théories favorites. » Que voyons-nous? Personne ne voit la même chose, insiste Arnheim. Le conférencier prend pour exemple Guernica de Picasso. « Selon les points de vue, ce n’est pas simplement l’interprétation qui change, mais bien la configuration même de la figure du taureau », explique Arnheim qui a consacré un livre en 1962 au célèbre tableau de Picasso. « Certains l’associent à la résilience et à la force tranquille. On en fait une métaphore de l’âme du peuple espagnol qui s’avère indestructible. D’autres interprètent ce taureau comme la transcription de l’agression fasciste. Selon le point de vue adopté, c’est un animal complètement différent qui nous est décrit. Impassible et imperturbable pour les uns. Enragé et chargeant avec une agressivité incontrôlable pour les autres. » Relire le compte-rendu de ce colloque nous restitue certaines préoccupations qui sont le reflet de ces années effervescentes.

Samedi en après-midi, la tribune faisait place à Abraham Moles, auteur d’Art et ordinateur et de Psychologie du kitsch. Portant sur l’information et l’esthétique de l’espace, sa communication mettait de l’avant, non sans triomphalisme technologique, l’avènement de « l’esthétique informationnelle ». S’appuyant sur un constat qui est celui de « l’épuisement des arts traditionnels », Moles plaide pour un renouvellement de l’expérience esthétique. La description que fait Moles des arts de l’espace du futur rejoint, contenu virtuel en moins, les jeux vidéo du tournant des années 2000 avec leur trajectoire défilante, leurs « micros évènements », leurs possibilités d’intervention, leur « combinatoire d’événements sensoriels ». En même temps nous sommes proches des lieux utopiques esquissés alors : ville du futur lorgnant sur Luna Park à la Archigram, Plug-in-City ou autre archi prospectives. Poursuivant le jeu de la prédiction, Moles annonce un nouveau champ d’intervention pour la critique d’art. En un renversement significatif, Moles prévoit que le conservateur d’expositions remplacera l’artiste. L’exposition s’écrira comme d’autres écrivent des livres ou des scénarios. Prenant la forme de récits cohérents, ces expositions, loin du simple avis sur l’art, deviendront, prédit Moles, l’une des formes privilégiées de la critique d’art actuelle. Ce rétro futurisme est-il fondé sur l’exposition When Attitudes Become Form, Live in Your Head (Kunshalle de Berne du 22 mars au 27 avril 1969), montée par Harald Szeemann ?

Le dimanche 23 août, la tribune accueille Harold Rosenberg avec comme thème Art et internationalisme. Considérant cette question particulièrement sensible pour ces voisins de Big Brother que sont les Canadiens, Harold Rosenberg n’aborde pas directement l’angle des relations entre la périphérie et ces deux centres de l’activité artistique que sont Paris et New York entre lesquels les artistes canadiens se sont longtemps sentis coincés. Toutefois, il affirme que la notion selon laquelle une ville, à l’exemple de Rome pour XVIe siècle, apparaît comme incontournable n’existe plus. « L’art est devenu un phénomène mondial. Ce concept selon lequel une ville jouerait le rôle principal sur la scène de l’art de son époque est totalement dépassé », estime l’auteur du terme « action painting ». Aujourd’hui il n’est pas essentiel pour un artiste de vivre à New York comme il se devait de vivre à Paris durant les années 1920, selon Rosenberg. « Les peintres américains devaient venir à Paris pour apprendre comment traiter des sujets américains. Paris conférait à leur production une forme d’arôme irrespirable ailleurs sans lequel il était impossible de comprendre l’art de cette époque. »

Questions et interventions donnent l’occasion à Rosenberg, comme à bâtons rompus, de livrer sa vision ce qui était alors un micro lieu, une scène circonscrite à Greenwich Village vers la 8th ou 9th Street entre la 5th Avenue et University Place. « Les expressionnistes abstraits étaient pour la plupart issus de l’immigration. Ils arrivent à New York les mains vides, sans attaches, sans tradition à laquelle se référer. Ils découvrent ensemble qu’ils veulent devenir artistes. Si leur peinture manifeste une grande diversité de factures, la proximité des ateliers joue. Une communauté très dense se tisse. Les frontières sont alors moins perméables. Au départ, les marchands new-yorkais ne veulent pas multiplier les intermédiaires. Ils sont peu enclins à envisager des ententes avec des galeries étrangères d’autant plus que ces artistes n’intéressent pas encore les collectionneurs. La peinture expressionniste, rappelle Rosenberg, ne sera connue qu’à la fin des années 1950 en Europe et ailleurs dans le monde alors que le marché de l’art s’y intéresse. » Par son caractère ubique, le pop art fait, selon lui, éclater toute focalisation. Le mouvement devient orbital. L’art actuel est saisi par le tourbillon d’un système de communication qui s’étend en simultané aux quatre coins de la planète. Quel que soit l’endroit où les œuvres sont créées, une connexion s’établit à travers les médias et les réseaux d’information qui les font pour ainsi dire exister au-delà des frontières nationales. « Aujourd’hui, l’artiste en tant qu’individu fait face au monde. Entre lui et le monde, il n’existe rien d’autre. Une situation qui, déplore Rosenberg, conduit à un appauvrissement généralisé de la production des artistes. »

Le Canadien Marshall McLuhan est associé à des formules-chocs et des aphorismes tels que « le médium est le message ». Oracle et guru des années 1960, McLuhan prophétise un bouleversement planétaire où le monde deviendra « un village global ». Marshall McLuhan est alors le chouchou des médias qu’il analyse. Il apparaît même en 1977 dans Annie Hall, le film de Woody Allen. À travers le Canada, une nouvelle vague d’artistes fascinés par les nouvelles technologies a fait de sa pensée une référence.

Le thème utopique de la rédemption sociale liée aux nouvelles technologies qui irrigue le tournant des années 1960 se prolonge à travers la popularité de la vidéo. L’exposition Concept 70 à laquelle General Idea participe en juin 1970 avec notamment Dennis Oppenheim et Ian Carr-Harrris est organisée par Chris Youngs et Robert Bowers à la galerie Youngs Nightingale. C’est la première exposition à Toronto à inclure de la vidéo. Au Canada, de nouveaux lieux subventionnés par l’État apparaissent alors pour mettre à la disposition de ces artistes les outils de cette nouvelle technique. La vidéo se caractérise par technologie portative qui ne nécessite qu’une initiation sommaire. Le résultat pour ainsi dire instantané permet de fixer l’éphémère. Les artistes en font un instrument d’introspection et une façon d’explorer l’environnement autant physique et social. Ils se rapprochent tout autant du « moi » et d’une perception de la vie quotidienne ou sociale. La vidéo semble alors aux yeux de nombreux artistes illustrer le précepte mcluhanien selon lequel les médias de communication agissent comme une extension de nos sens.

Plutôt que de développer ce thème, McLuhan, qui s’exprime pour une première fois devant un auditoire majoritairement issu des arts visuels, livre à travers sa conférence une vision de l’art à l’heure de la menace environnementale. Avec comme titre anglais Garbage Apocalypse, l’événement très attendu attire dans une salle pleine à craquer artistes, universitaires, étudiants, curieux et grands-mères aux cheveux blancs[6]. En proie à l’hydre des médias, le village global est envahi par les déchets en tous genres qui en font une catastrophe écologiste. Distillant les formules-chocs et autant de phrases parfois sibyllines en formes de tracts poétiques, McLuhan illustre la dystopie d’un futur déjà advenu, marqué par l’envahissement trash. Tandis que les critiques de l’AICA s’escrimaient devant les problèmes techniques parasitant la traduction simultanée, McLuhan leur martèle que le rebus est une forme d’art à échelle massive. Ce qui est rejeté, une fois reconverti par l’art, connaît un nouveau salut romantique[7]. « Selon un syndrome du phénix, l’art allie maintenant à parts égales destruction et créativité. » Conclusion pessimiste de McLuhan : « Je ne suis pas vraiment certain que la critique d’art aura un avenir dans un tel monde. »

Naguère associée à son conservatisme, Toronto connaît alors une nouvelle fébrilité. Pour leur souhaiter la bienvenue et leur communiquer un peu de ce climat, on convie les congressistes dès leur arrivée lundi soir le 24 août à un « happening » mettant en scène le Nihilism Spasm Band. Ce trio déjanté, formé des artistes Graham Coughtry, Gordon Rayner et Robert Markle, allie jazz et musique concrète. La ville, note Jeanine Warnod dans la deuxième chronique de son voyage canadien secoue ses rigidités. Pour preuve cette soirée ainsi décrite[8] : « Cet orchestre d’artistes jouant des instruments fabriqués par eux-mêmes remplis de sons stridents une salle telle une cellule aux murs blancs, où artistes et critiques se mirent à gesticuler, libérés de toutes contraintes sous l’effet du bruit. » Faisant d’une pierre deux coups, Jeanine Warnod se saisit de ce lien pour établir une transition entre ses impressions de Toronto et des extraits de la communication de McLuhan à laquelle elle a assisté. McLuhan y avançait notamment l’idée d’un espace autant sonore et acoustique que visuel. « Nous sommes enveloppés, d’après McLuhan, d’une information électrique qui engendre une saturation de signaux visuels, mais surtout tactiles et sonores. Totalement plongé dans cet espace, écrit Jeanine Warnod, l’être jeune adopte les gestes primitifs et les attitudes de la tribu dans la société post alphabète. »

Mardi 25 août. Au programme, visite des jardins de sculpture de l’Université de Toronto ; cocktail et déjeuner ; visite de la ville, des galeries et de certains ateliers d’artistes ; à nouveau cocktail et visite de collections particulières. Le lendemain, excursion aux chutes du Niagara. Et suivant le courant : visites de la collection d’art inuit de la banque Toronto Dominion ; galeries ; collections publiques et privées. Lors d’un dîner à l’Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO), le conservateur en chef de l’institution Mario Amaya y présente son exposition intitulée Réalismes 1970. L’exposition comprend une œuvre de Michael Morris et Glenn Lewis, Did you ever milk a cow. Glenn Lewis et Michael Morris font partie de ces artistes canadiens émergents qui s’inspirent tout autant d’une nouvelle forme de dadaïste que de l’art conceptuel.

Comme à Toronto avec General Idea à ses débuts, à Montréal, à Vancouver avec les Baxter et autour d’Intermedias à Vancouver dont Morris est l’un des animateurs, ces artistes se regroupent en collectif. Invoquant William Burroughs, le Living Theater et Fluxus, proches dans leurs préoccupations de la contre-culture de la fin des années 1960, ils abordent le monde de l’art avec dans leur bagage les idéaux de la contestation politique du mouvement d’opposition à la guerre du Vietnam et l’hédonisme irrévérencieux des années psychédéliques. Morris et Lewis proposent au visiteur de l’AGO de côtoyer Elsie, une vache, exposée en chair et en os. « La vache Elsie pièce de musée, commente Michel Conil-Lacoste, cristalliserait la perplexité du critique appelé aujourd’hui à écrire sur l’échantillonnage et le grand éventail de ces “attitudes devenues formes ou non’’ »[9]. « Évolution dans le sens d’une dilation de l’œuvre d’art »[10], selon Conil-Lacoste, jaillissant du cadre prévu pour déboucher sur l’indéfinissable et le hors catégorie, Elsie reconduisait pour ainsi dire les congressistes le lendemain en fin de journée aux portes d’une table ronde portant sur La crise de la critique d’art.

Lawrence Alloway, parrain du pop art, était d’abord invité à commenter le thème choisi. Dans son état des lieux, Alloway distingue la critique d’art au service de l’artiste et le compte-rendu d’exposition au service du marché qu’il ne juge d’aucune utilité. Décochant quelques flèches à Clement Greenberg et à Artforum, érigés en contre-exemples, il s’élève contre « la critique canonique devenue une routine orthodoxe et systématique ». Entre le danger de se voir assigner une fonction promotionnelle et les nécessités d’un engagement auquel il est pressé, le critique se doit selon Alloway de ne jamais oublier ces « essentiels ». D’abord « la fonction de célébration du critique », cette propension à répercuter l’émotion ressentie devant les œuvres d’un artiste, d’un courant. « Et aussi ne jamais être démissionnaire dans ses capacités d’évaluation des nouveaux apports de l’art contemporain. » Enfin, la responsabilité citoyenne est aussi évoquée. « La critique doit garder un œil sur la pertinence des choix qui motivent une distribution équitable des fonds surtout publics consacrée à l’art. »

Après l’exposé de Lawrence Alloway, le choc viendra du panel. Un débat public était prévu. Au générique : Barry Lord, critique d’art à Arts Canada, correspondant canadien pour Art in America, auparavant critique au quotidien Toronto Star; les artistes Greg Curnoe de London (Ontario), ville de 250 000 habitants où s’est établie une colonie d’artistes, et Ronald Bloore de Toronto. La thématique de même que le choix des panellistes ont été suggérés par un comité de critiques d’art de Toronto, notamment Gail Dexter et Ann Brodsky, éditrice de Arts Canada. Le titre initial devait être « Critiques d’art, oppresseurs ou libérateurs ? ».

La discussion est animée par Mario Amaya. Dans un style que n’aurait pas désavoué Godard dans son film La Chinoise, Barry Lord s’engage dans une longue profession de foi maoïste. Lord réfute le concept d’exterritorialité avancé par Rosenberg en le taxant d’hégémonique et d’impérialiste.

À la suite, le peintre canadien Ronald Bloore se pose la question de l’accessibilité de la critique. « Je crois que la critique d’art est divorcée de l’art précisément car elle lui est trop intimement connectée. » Bloore se demande à qui doit s’adresser la critique d’art. « Sûrement pas au consensus implicite du milieu de l’art. » Le critique d’art doit sortir de sa tour d’ivoire et communiquer avec les gens ordinaires. Greg Curnoe reproche à l’exercice de la critique d’art son hermétisme. Ce partisan d’un art national canadien affirme que l’artiste canadien se doit de trouver son identité. Décrypter certains propos de Curnoe empreints d’une fascination qui lui fait admirer l’art brut et les expressions « folk » nous ramène à un sous-texte où l’on voudrait mobiliser des ressources et savoirs endogènes en se situant à un autre niveau que celui de la connaissance académique.

Art in America. May-June 1969. Les diapos de Ian Baxter (N.E. Thing Co) illustrent en couverture un important article avec comme titre Impossibe Art qui réunit Oppenheim, Smithson. Robert Morris, Heizer, Nauman, Kosuth, Lewitt, Grady, Archigram et autres.

On assiste à un impossible chassé-croisé pour surmonter ces « murailles » qui se dressent, selon l’image lancée par le critique français René de Sollier. « Murailles de la langue tandis que les participants au congrès souvent constamment alternent entre français et anglais ; murailles des défaillances techniques tandis que les appareils servant à la traduction simultanée éprouvent des défaillances ; disparités des références entre Européens et Américains ; muraille entre l’art et son public ; muraille du niveau de discours tant le langage de la critique peut sembler ésotérique au public général. »

Les interrogations de l’artiste canadienne Vera Frankel sur ce que serait le « critique idéal » recentrent le débat sur les outils théoriques au service de la critique. Enchaînant, Cirici-Pellicer cite Foucault. Il insiste sur l’apport des sciences humaines, sémiologie, sociologie et anthropologie structurale. Avec ce mot de la fin, René Berger situe la critique à la « croisée des disciplines et des points de vue scientifiques et spécialisés qui dorénavant devront l’éclairer ». Animateur de la rencontre, Mario Amaya en fait le compte-rendu dans Art in America en janvier 1971[11]. « La discussion fut un désastre. » Amaya revient d’abord avec ironie sur la rhétorique aux accents maoïstes de Barry Lord. Il s’inquiète plus loin d’un certain narcissisme. « Les critiques visiteurs ont dû trouver leurs vis-à-vis canadiens complètement obnubilés par tout ce qui est Canadiana, et ce, comme si n’existaient que les problèmes politiques et esthétiques qui font rage ici. Et les Canadiens n’ont pas compris pourquoi ces questions intestines qui les passionnent tant n’intéressaient que fort peu leurs hôtes. »

Au matin du vendredi 29 août, les congressistes prennent le chemin de l’aéroport pour se rendre à Vancouver. Les visites s’y succèdent. Visite de la Vancouver Art Gallery et du Centennial Museum suivi d’un dîner offert par l’Université Simon Fraser. Enfin soirée à l’université animée par Ian Baxter.

De tels documents sur N.E. Thing Co ont été remis aux congressistes au sortir de la visite de l’atelier de Ian Baxter à Vancouver.

Avec sa femme Ingrid, Ian Baxter est le fondateur de la N.E. Thing Company Limited (NETCO). À partir de son siège social que constitue leur pavillon de banlieue de North Vancouver où les congressistes sont reçus le lendemain, NETCO sera un pionnier du détournement des stratégies publicitaires et des processus d’étalagisme et de communication. Germano Celant confie au critique d’art canadien Normand Thériault qu’il attendait avec beaucoup d’impatience cette visite. Au printemps 1969, la revue Art in America qui consacre un numéro spécial à l’art conceptuel plaçait des œuvres de Ian Baxter en couverture[12]. Un même « nonsense » et cet alliage de radicalisme et d’invention bon enfant des Baxter se retrouvent dans les œuvres de Michael Morris et de General Idea. Le lendemain, quelques heures furent consacrées à la visite d’Intermedias qui agit tout autant comme lieu de production que de diffusion pour ce courant.

Après la visite d’Intermedias et de la galerie d’art de l’Université, les congressistes sont conviés à une visite des ateliers de quelques artistes, dont Michael Morris. Ce dernier entoure de ruban bleu un groupe de critiques. La photographie de cette action orne le frontispice de la publication colligeant les comptes-rendus de l’assemblée et en garde le souvenir. Dans son reportage sur Toronto et Vancouver, Jeanine Warnod s’attache à l’expérience d’Intermedias[13] . Une même « étude de cas » concernant Intermedias est reprise sous la plume du critique Arnold Kohler dans La Tribune de Genève[14]. Intermedias servira de rampe de lancement pour ces galeries parallèles canadiennes dédiées à « l ‘art expérimental » que le Conseil des Arts du Canada entend subventionner. Avec Vehicule à Montréal, Optica consacrée à la photo conceptuelle et qui naît en 1972, Art Metropole fondée en 1973 à Toronto par General Idea comme autres modèles, les « centres d’artistes » essaimeront à travers le Canada. Les tensions politiques au sein de la fédération canadienne menacée dans son unité tout autant que le climat économique serein de cette époque éclairent ce contexte. Au départ, il s’agissait pour le gouvernement fédéral d’aider les artistes à vivre de leur art et de faciliter dans toutes les régions du pays le développement de ressources à leur service :  centre d’impression ou studio filmique audiovisuel. Ces lieux alternatifs permettent l’accès à de nouvelles technologies dont la vidéo. Leurs expositions s’intéressent à la photo conceptuelle, à l’installation, la performance[15]. La réception des œuvres exigeait une nouvelle approche tant le contexte de la scène canadienne avait évolué. De nouvelles revues d’art voient le jour. File (1972-1989) accompagne les créations de General Idea à Toronto ou Morris à Vancouver. Parachute (1976) s’ouvre aux derniers bouleversements de la scène nationale et internationale.

Le 2e Congrès extraordinaire de 1970 diagnostique une véritable crise de l’attention relativement aux directions d’un art contemporain qui nécessitent tout autant que de nouveaux lieux de diffusion, de nouvelles réflexions et de nouveaux moyens d’analyse. Comment la critique d’art se doit-elle d’interagir afin de mieux coller aux mutations de l’art de son époque? Face à ces questions, la scène canadienne laisse s’exprimer certaines tensions entre insularité et désir d’ouverture. Artistes et critiques canadiens y greffent leurs propres interrogations, l’amorce d’un engagement à venir comme en gestation, une manière d’apporter sur place un nouvel air à ces discours. Avec ces lieux alternatifs et ces nouvelles revues qui voient le jour, de nouveaux moyens pour l’art contemporain et la critique sont alors « testés ». Débattre des défis de l’heure. Faire le point. En organisant ce rendez-vous, l’AICA associée au territoire canadien permettait de faire entendre une pluralité d’observations dans l’espoir de faire émerger de nouveaux horizons.

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[1]Comptes-rendus de la XXIIe Assemblée générale. AICA Montréal, août 1970, p. 15.

[2] Des Québécois franglais aux Indiens de l’Ouest. Jeanine Warnod. Le Figaro, jeudi 3 septembre 1970.

[3] Editorial. Andrée Paradis. Vie des arts. Numéro 60. Automne 1970

[4] Comptes-rendus de la XXIIe Assemblée générale, p. 122

[5] Michel Conil-Lacoste. Réunis au Canada à l’occasion de leur XXIIe Assemblée générale les critiques d’art sont à la croisée des disciplines. Le Monde, 17 septembre 1970, p. 17

[6] International Art critics’ conférence par Mario Amaya. Art in America January-February 1971. Vol 59 no 1.

[7] « Art form equals the romantic salvation of that junk ».

[8] Toronto À quoi tend le défoulement d’une collectivité. Jeanine Warnod. Le Figaro, jeudi 10 septembre 1970

[9] Ibid… Conil-Lacoste. Le Monde, 17 septembre 1970, p.17

[10] Ibid… Conil-Lacoste. Le Monde, 17 septembre 1970 .p. 17

[11] Ibid… Amaya .Art in America. January-February vol.59 No 1.

[12] Impossible Art. Art in America. May-June 1969.

[13] Ibid... Warnod. Le Figaro, 10 septembre 1970

[14] Ottawa dote largement les arts plastiques par Arnold Kohler. La tribune de Genève. 7-8 novembre 1970

[15] Par-al-lel. Diana Nemiroff. Pages 180 à 189 in SightLines. Reading Contemporary Canadian Art. Edited by Jessica Bradley and Lesley Johnstone. Artextes édition 1994. Montréal.

Voir aussi : Comptes-rendus du 2e Congrès extraordinaire. Art et perception

Art Criticism in the Netherlands in the ‘80s and ‘90s and the Role of the AICA

Antje von Graevenitz

Din Pieters

It is rather complicated, looking back at a significant phase in one’s life during which, as an art critic, one has tried very hard to take in the important topics of the day and, at the same time as a member of the board of AICA The Netherlands, to confront one’s fellow members with these topics by organising debates, lectures and conferences. Perhaps it is even impossible, as after such a long time one’s head fills up with only one thing: fog. Some people may crop up in one’s memory, but their statements are inaudible, or forever forgotten. A sense of atmosphere from those days gets blurred, but may still be recalled. Queries sent by mail to the people concerned have generally produced very poor results.  They, too, struggle with the same problem. Forgetfulness has struck them, as well. Luckily, however, the AICA archive that is stored  since 1997 at the Netherlands Institute of Art History (RKD) in The Hague, provides something to hold on to. And books[1] and magazines that have dealt with art criticism of the 1980s and 1990s have also been of great help. Still, how one wonders how reliable and comprehensive these publications are, when dealing with the events that AICA had organised. Although a smoke-screen may hang over these meetings, it may be still be worth asking oneself, in general, what kinds of development professional art criticism was undergoing in those days.

The symposium „Writing about Art“ organised for the AICA together with the Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven, 30.11.-1.12.1991: From the right: Ulrich Loock, Dirk van Weelden, Saskia Bos (moderator), Antje von Graevenitz (foto: Peter Cox)

Important revolutions do not take place in 1900 or 2000, but develop over time. In hindsight the 1980s and 1990s may be  seen to have been a period of great change, to which art criticism was not immune. Art critics are well informed and their subject is the present. From the second half of the twentieth century onwards, art historians, too, have increasingly dealt with present-day reality, as they have become aware of it, because of their growing awareness of the hermeneutic position of their field of research.[2]They have taken to writing art criticism and to joining the editorial boards of art journals, and AICA has started to attract art historians as new members. AICA, for its part, has increasingly invited art historians to appear as guest speakers.  In the same way that a culture processes all kinds of change, as a seismograph registers shocks, the texts of art critics reflect these changes, often clearly, whatever the apparent differences between them, they emphasise certain aspects, investigate new art theories and standards, and consider their validity[3]. In doing so, they encourage debate and enhance their readers’ perceptions of cultural change. The AICA International, of course, coordinates these things as well, and presents them for debate at its international congresses. At the same time the national sections also have a role to play. They, too, promote debates and present topics that may clarify certain things, or prove to be inspiring and stimulating in a general cultural environment.

How did the AICA in The Netherlands respond to all this? Documents from the end of the 1970s show that it saw itself foremost as a club of lobbyists. Important topics, for discussion by only a handful of members in a small room high in the Rijksmuseum Vincent van Gogh, included, for example, the issues of copyright and fees. The recruitment of new members was often discussed: How should we get in touch with young art critics? Might they permitted to pay a lower membership fee? How could we encourage contacts with foreign colleagues, such as Polish or East German art critics, who were AICA members? Who was going to attend AICA’s annual congress? Who was going to speak there? And would we, perhaps, be able to get some funds from the government? Some of the older members had experienced forms of anti-Semitism, persecution of the Jews and witch-hunts for communists during the German occupation of The Netherlands in 1940-45 and were focussed to discuss moral and philosophical topics. Someone like Mathilde Visser, for instance , (1900-1985, an art critic writing for De Waarheid and Het Financieele Dagblad),   as a former communist, would use every AICA meeting as an opportunity for vociferously pointing out that art critics had the obligation to keep an eye on politics, and not just cultural politics. The president of the  Section, Hans Jaffé, held a lecture for AICA members about his trip to China, and  later another lecture at the Art Historical Institute of the University of Amsterdam, in which he spoke in moving words about Max Beckmann’s exile in Amsterdam during  the Second World War.[4] On that occasion not only art critics were present, but also some artists, Armando among them. Sometimes, it felt like being a member of some secret society.

Our current view of what took place more than 35 years ago has been coloured by our memory, the choices we now make and how we judge the facts. We, Antje von Graevenitz, president of the section from 1987 to 1995, and Din Pieters, general secretary from 1989 to 1995, are trying, however, to describe AICA’s history. We owe much to the support of Tineke Reijnders, who was first a member of the AICA board, until she succeeded Von Graevenitz as chair, in 1996. Our point of departure for our description of the section’s history has been the many events that it has managed to organise over the years.

One of the first events that the new board held in 1987 was called Art Tourism – Art on Location. It fitted in with a debate about democratisation that was very topical at the time, and focused on the question of how to open up our ‘elitist art temples’ to a larger public. Exhibitions such as Chambres d’Amis. in Ghent, curated by Jan Hoet, Skulptur Projekte in Münster by Kaspar König, Sonsbeek ’86 curated by Saskia Bos, and Century ’87 Today’s Art Face to Face with Amsterdam’s Past, curated by Sjarel Ex, Nicolette Gast and Els Hoek, were looking for a different kind of environment in which to show contemporary art. Speakers at the AICA meeting were Sjarel Ex, Jan Hoet, Saskia Bos, Philip Peters and the artists Niek Kemps and Willem Sanders.

The symposium „Writing about Art“: From the right: Marlene Dumas, Ludger Gerdes, Frank Lubbers (moderator), Niek Kemps. Juan Muňos (foto: Peter Cox)

Postmodernism

A complete U-turn in our thinking about the Modern in general presented itself already in the 1970s and early 1980s, when articles were published in France about Postmodernism and the role of art criticism. The ‘death’ of modernism provided a new freedom of thought, in which contradiction, plurality and hybridisation played important roles. For a large part, these were themes that had been presented earlier by Roland Barthes in 1966 in his book, Critique et verité, where he pointed out the necessity of using a pluralistic language. Early on in this, he stated that, instead of holding on to a strict normative and moral framework, one should strive for agreement and consensus. In the same vein, Peter Sloterdijk, in his long book Kritik der zynischen Vernunft of 1983, stated that he wanted to replace the wrong consciousness of the norms of the Enlightenment, as he saw it, with ‘the Enlightenment as conversation’. During the 1980s in our country, foreign authors, such as Jean Baudrillard, were offered a platform in the magazine Museumjournaal, when  an AICA member, Paul Groot, was its editor (1980-1989).[5]

Was there a noticeable influence of these new ideas on our choice of topics to be presented for discussion? And have our discussions had a subsequent influence on art criticism? Using the philosophical arguments of Baudrillard and the artist who influenced him, Marcel Duchamp, the AICA member Frank Reijnders published his dissertation, Art History. Appearance and Disappearance (1984). Reijnders argued in his book that art history would disappear in its old form, and nothing could prevent its re-emergence in a new guise. ‘Consequently, a constant mirroring back and forth between image and notion will ensue, and the new will blend with the false – because anachronistic. The avant-garde has always wanted to ignore tradition, because this form of denial constitutes the engine and justification of its own existence.’ However, the author insisted that history still provided the framework for its identification, because ‘there reigned a perfect promiscuity of art-space […] This blending resulted in a hybrid order of forms, uncontrolled proliferation of signs, an endless variation of “signifiers”.’ Reijnders held a talk for AICA members in 1987, at which his book was debated extensively.[6]

As far back as in 1983, French philosopher Jean-François Lyotard had written in his book, Le Différend, that the modern had been pregnant with the post-modern for quite some time, because resistance against the existing order was inherent in both. The process of remembering could not be suddenly swept away by the avant-garde. Reconsideration of what had existed earlier – a main characteristic of postmodernism – remained important; otherwise it would be impossible to know what model one is opposing, and resistance was useless. Thus, gestures were ambiguous: repression of the old went hand in hand with openness to the new; the same went for for memories, and then  there was the question of patience, as well. What was created in this way, as an image of what had really happened in the past, might be truthful; and then a re-writing of the modern might be possible, too.

Not only was Frank Reijnders’ lecture a consequence of AICA’s discussing the topic of Post-modernism; other events in the same spirit took place in the AICA programme somewhat later. On 22 May 1987 a discussion was held in the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam with the title The Enigma of Postmodernism, at which talks were given by Jan Middendorp, Paul Groot and Adi Martis. The subject remained in the focus of AICA’s attention. And some time later, in February 1993, the same topic was again debated by lecturers from Belgium and The Netherlands during the conference, Beyond Art – Art Criticism in a New Phase. Lectures were given by Bart Verschaffel, from Antwerp, and Lieven De Cauter, from Louvain. Together with other guest speakers, including Marianne Brouwer, Paul Groot, the poet K. Michel, Dominic van den Boogerd and  Let Geerling, there was a lively discussion among those present.

The history of architecture was another inspirational source for art criticism. At the beginning of the 1970s architectural historians, such as Charles Jencks and Heinrich Klotz, applied the term ‘postmodernism’ to architecture. Philosophers and curators embraced the notion wholeheartedly, because now they could explain why architects such as Frank Gehry and Philip Johnson threw over their inhibitions and set about incorporating historical motifs into their designs for new buildings – something that was absolutely ‘not on’ in modernism. History became a much beloved source again. Architecture, art and music no longer had to fight bourgeois culture, as if they were revolutionary. But another kind of terminology was now needed. So, in 1993 AICA invited architectural historians Ole Bouman and Roemer van Toorn to come and talk about their forthcoming monumental and labyrinthine book, The Invisible in Architecture (1994). They told their audience that ‘oppositional thinking must make way for complementary thinking’. Architecture was about the connection between the visible and the invisible, and by accepting this, ‘intimate’ and physical values, such as the role of architecture in people’s public behaviour, received attention for the first time; and this, in turn, created to the need for a new set of criteria in our assessment of architecture. Both authors tried to create a new kind of terminology for this process. One happy outcome of this was that it led to a very lively discussion between the authors and two other architectural historians, Bart Lootsma and Joost Meuwissen in  The Zaal De Unie, in Rotterdam.

The Political Context

The 1980s and 1990s were also a time of far-reaching geopolitical changes that nobody could have predicted, and that led to the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. Changes in historical circumstances that started in Eastern Europe forced art critics to become more conscious of the ideological foundations of their judgments and they had to start thinking about the criteria and language they were using, when formulating their criticism. In art history research is generally based upon connoisseurship, and detailed comparisons of style, signature and technique. Later on, in the 1970s, analysis of the artist’s biographical circumstances and intentions in a socio-political context became increasingly important. This all fundamentally changed art historical research and, as a consequence, art criticism too. Social and political influences on art were suddenly seen to be dominant forces, and it was recognised that artists were not excluded from them – and so were all of us. Artistic motifs, signs and the choice of subjects in their works were now seen to be more or less consciously connected to these forces. ‘Context’ sometimes seemed to be the stern teacher that guided the hand of the artist, when painting or chiselling. And context dictated, as it were, the meaning of a work of art, while the importance of the artist’s personal contribution and choices had moved into the background. It was a process of abstraction, in fact, as society and collective creativity were given absolute status. At first, this new kind of dogmatic thinking was highly exaggerated, and it still exists of course, but it no longer belongs exclusively to the domain of art historians. Suddenly, art historical publications had to start with a description of the historical context, and most often ended there, too; but context still played a creative role and sometimes even came to be seen as a decisive factor, as well. The dependency of culture, and especially art, had to be demonstrated time and again. This dominant way of thinking also determined the art critic’s point of view, and looking back, we can conclude that these developments had a great impact on art critical debate in The Netherlands.

The large-scale changes began in the 1980s in the Soviet Union. This geographic and political world power was beginning to show signs of economic cracks: shops were becoming more and more empty. The economic downturn was followed by a political downwards spiral. The then president, Michael Gorbachev, from 1985 onwards, was leading a process of spiritual and social reform. The terms glasnost – openness - and perestroika – political and economic reform – were the slogans, and received a warm international welcome. It looked as if society and the cultural scene, in general, had been waiting for this. But it was all to no avail - Gorbachev had little chance, and because of the ongoing political and economic crisis his power diminished rapidly. His successor, Boris Yeltsin, did not succeed in solving the problems and as a consequence the once mighty Soviet empire fell apart, as the various countries that formed the Union began to demand independence. Only the German Democratic Republic did not want any of this, their economy did not leave any room for independence; and Erich Honecker, its president, and his government put their trust in the protection the still big communist state would provide them. But eventually, through the ongoing economic, democratic and cultural crisis, Honecker, lost his grip on the developments in his country. The intellectual elite, and large parts of the rest of the country (‘We are the People!’) wanted a different kind of policy that allowed people with different ideas - the opposition - a chance in society and politics, but still within some kind of socialism. Gradually an alternative solution presented itself - the reintegration of the two different Germanys - and this, indeed, was achieved. Almost fifty years after the separation of the two German states into a capitalist state and a socialist state, a unified Germany was established in 1990. These events evoked feelings of great sympathy for the people in the East who were fighting for their freedom – as did the tragic and bloody end to the protest of Chinese students in Tiananmen Square in 1989, which was forcefully ended by military intervention in a single night.

Now people in the art world in the West were beginning to ask questions, such as: What are our criteria, now that our view of European/American art no longer seems to be the dominant force? Art in Eastern Europe was no longer isolated from the rest of the world, and perhaps there might be similarities between the East and the West, for all the apparent differences. This international context had a great influence upon AICA’s programme.

Shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall we invited the art historian Andreas Thielemann, who taught at the University of Cologne, and who had been an East German citizen in the past, to deliver a lecture on the  theme of Art from the German Democratic Republic – an Inner German War of Images, in which he offered AICA members some new insights into the gap that existed in the GDR between adaptation and resistance. That same year we also were lucky to receive a talk by the Russian art critic Alexander Yakimovich, who as a witness to the great changes between East and West developed many contacts in the western art world. He had initially offered to give us no fewer than twelve  lectures on the subject (!), but we only took one, in the event. In 1992, his lecture Late Soviet Civilisation was published in the Dutch magazine, Kunst & Museumjournaal (vol. 3, nr. 6, pp.18-23) and it is about the differences between East and West. The earlier controversy between the official, communist art and art history of the authorities and that of the underground artists, writers and intellectuals, had now been replaced by a new duality: looking narrowly at Soviet-style art or looking at it in a broader sense. The narrow look had become the more familiar, also in the west, and was based upon the neo-romantic idea of an ‘isolated élite that has its orientation towards the West, and the rest of Soviet reality.’ In contrast, followers of the ‘broad view’, such as  Boris Groys, did not detach the ‘real art’ of the non-conformists from the rest of Soviet reality. They were interested in the Homo Sovieticus in a wider sense. In other words, Yakimovich wondered, how would the artist respond to the Soviet universe and how would it be reflected in his work?

Yakimovich went on to state that, while in the West, writers such as Baudrillard, Derrida and Barthes were attempting to find a solution to the ‘problems and paradoxes of a society of plenty, production and pluralism that for the most part were dictated by laws of consumption, communication and tolerance’, people in Russia did not have the slightest notion of these things. Still, he could see similarities between the ‘desperate spirit’ in the East, and that in the West, although the causes were completely different. In the West, freedom, democracy and abundance lay at the heart of our confusion; in the East, the harsh totalitarian society and the ultimate collapse of the communist system were the main causes. Without the assistance of Derrida, who called for caution when using sets of opposing notions, in Russia the fundamentally antithetical concepts of ‘truth and lies, reality and fiction, religion and atheism, progress and decline’ fell apart, of their own accord. According to Yakimovich, Russian culture ‘had always had its own national kind of eschatology that can already be found in Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.’ And the theories that Kasimir Malevich formulated were of a more or less eschatological nature, too. A permanent feeling of disaster in the Soviet Union was always unavoidable. Art critics in the West were talking about a ‘happy apocalypse’ in modern art and they thought that the only way out was to ‘amuse ourselves to death’, but in Russian art, Yakimovich concluded succinctly, only the first half of that statement was relevant. There was no alternative: ‘there is no Utopia (…) Cultural representatives in the west quite rightly guessed that we have common basic problems regarding the relation between man and the world, but they did not recognise the differences.’

Kasimir Malevich

AICA was able to play a considerable part in the growing interest in the history of Russian art. When the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam organised a large exhibition of works by Kasimir Malevich in 1989 - the first ever of its kind in the West, AICA held a conference about his art, in which the speakers were Hans van Dijk, Bazon Brock, Marga van Mechelen and the Swiss Malevich expert Felix Philipp Ingold. Ingold’s talk was primarily about the Black Square. In answering our questions about this in 2020, he writes that he cannot remember much about what the lecture was about specifically, but that ‘it certainly was about the contradiction between all and nothing, and fulness and emptiness, and how Malevich presents them in text and image. Taking as an example the Black Square that he developed from 1913 to 1915 from the set for Krushenik’s theatre piece, Victory over the Sun, (…) Black unites different colours and eliminates them at the same time (…) And when one sees it as text, the same thing happens (…) One can put a countless number of texts on top of one another and the result will eventually be an impenetrable black square. In the end we may say that everything is there, but intangible and incomprehensible.’ Hans van Dijk’s lecture was primarily about Malevich’s suprematist architectural designs that he made with his students. Marga van Mechelen’s focus was on the question of whether Malevich could be seen as a semiotician avant la lettre. In this regard, could he be put on a par with Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky? She very much had her doubts. After comparing the texts of Malevich with those of other Russian formalists, she discovered that the latter viewed the relationship between form and content in a different way from that of semioticians, later on. Formalists saw content as form, as well. Malevich belonged neither to the formalist school nor to the semioticians, Van Mechelen concluded. Malevich’s main interest was to find a new way of imbuing the non-mimetic elements of a painting with meaning. The lectures of both Ingold and Van Mechelen were complementary in a surprising kind of way, and the conference in general was important for our AICA members and other people present. It provided an opportunity for rethinking the differences between East and West.

Globalism

Even before changes in the cultural relations between East and West had become an interesting topic, the growth in global trade, or more generally ‘globalisation’, was leading to the question of how this process would influence art and culture. It did not remain just a question, as many exhibitions, manifestations and publications were giving a prominent place to this topic, and were investigating how global artistic creativity could be impartially presented and judged. One of the most surprising, and controversial, exhibitions that came out of this, was organised in Paris by Jean-Hubert Martin in 1989, under the title of Magiciens de la terre. The curator’s central point was that artists in the West played a similar role to that of shamans in non-western cultures, and the term ‘artist’ would disappear completely, or in any case change its meaning fundamentally. In 1991, AICA The Netherlands invited the New York based art critic Thomas McEvilley to present his views on globalism and art. His lecture, entitled Contemporary Art in History. A portrait in a Global Frame, was also published in Kunst & Museumjournaal later that year (vol. 3, no. 2, pp.1-10). McEvilley saw modernism as an ideology that tried to maintain a complex of social values such as class differences, colonialism and imperialism, stating that the concepts hierarchy and centre vs. periphery were characteristic of modernism. In fact, these terms were a justification for imperialism, and one might think of Rudyard Kipling’s The White Man’s Burden, as a prime example. According to McEvilley, the distinction we make between centre and periphery, higher and lower art, Western and non-Western depended upon, or was syntactically connected to, the distinction between nature and culture. And he maintained that post-modernism had been trying to turn these values on their head, at least in its early beginnings. Art history had always been an exclusive western domain, and all other cultures were disregarded. For McEvilley, the end of art history also meant the end of the view that there was only one, narrow and separate trend, perhaps even only a main trend that we have to study, and he stated that in a ‘global village’ the concept of a single or main current was no longer tenable. The most important question now, he declared, was whether it was any longer possible to formulate transcultural judgements. Only through self-reflection, the development of a sense of perspective, and the use of common sense, could we support our attempt to become global in a practical sense, instead of universal in a metaphysical sense. And what about the mixture of cultures? Was that a real possibility, or would it have irrevocable, destructive consequences? This conclusion sounded unfortunate, McEvilley complained to his audience, as it held onto the notion of ethnic purity. He would rather argue for an openness to other cultures and reach the conclusion that thinking your own concepts were universally true was, perhaps, one of the most characteristic of all particularist simplifications.

 The New Media

Art critics have been confronted with radical changes from within art itself. Since the 1960s artists have been eagerly experimenting with new technologies, such as video, but the subsequent introduction of new digital media has directly influenced the critic’s profession. Without the intermediate stage of newspapers, journals, catalogues and books, information has begun to spread with tremendous speed throughout the global art world. This has led to questions such as: ‘How and what do you select from this increasing flood of material? How can you deal with the copyright on illustrations? Can you counter manipulation? And does the ”perfect” work of art still exist?’ In an attempt to find answers to these compelling questions, AICA organised a conference about the role of The New Media, in 1996. Geert Lovink, the founder of the Institute of Network Cultures, talked about the daily practice of the net critic and copyright, and the writer Arjen Mulder’s subject was The Ideal of Meaningless-ness. A round-table concluded the day, with Tineke Reijnders as chair and with the participation of Jorinde Seijdel, Dorine Mignot, Jouke Kleerebezem and Toine Ooms. As a curator for video-art at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, Mignot spoke about the artistic use of the new media, while art historian and critic Jorinde Seijdel drew the new media in a wider social and cultural perspective. When we asked the artist, Kleerebezem, about this, he remembered these ‘exciting’ days as follows: ‘The ‘90s were very productive. The attention of many artists, designers and also “hackers” – originally in a subcultural setting, shared by social scientists like Mulder and Lovink – was directed towards the internet and the World Wide Web. We saw a newly emerging space for expression and participation, where new circumstances of production, presentation, reflection and education applied.’

The symposium „Writing about Art“: From the right: Bice Curiger, Alain Cueff, Stuart Morgan,Tineke Reijnders-de Groot (foto: Peter Cox)

A Burning Question and Two Conferences

Next to these meetings, AICA – with outside support – organised two public debates about the changing nature of art criticism: Are they Writing like Mandarins? (in 1988) and Writing about Art (in 1991). Articles with the proceedings of both meetings were published in Museumjournaal (vol. 33, no. 3, 1988, pp. 139-162) and Kunst & Museumjournaal  (vol. 3, no. 4, 1992, pp. 1-61). These conferences can be seen in the context of a wider debate that erupted in 1983 in our country about unreadable art criticism that was set off by the poet and writer, Gerrit Komrij. In an article in Vrij Nederland (issue of 2 October 1982), headed The Burning Question, he attacked art critics who emulated the artist Joseph Beuys, in producing ‘mystic sentences’, ‘would-be profundities’, and ‘secretive twaddle’.

The Museumjournaal took up the challenge and devoted an entire issue to the state of art criticism (vol. 38, no.1, 1983). The article by the poet K. Schippers, who regularly wrote about art – and still does – posed the question of why it was that art so often led to weighty nonsense. The art historian and artist, Franck Gribling, in his contribution stated that writing about art should not be a job for specialists, and the critic, Cor Blok, also disassociated himself from the use of a secretive language when dealing with art. In his view, the work of the then fashionable ‘Neue Wilden’ (‘wild painters’) suffered from  too much self-expression, but he warned critics not to express their revulsion against it in the same way as critics in Nazi Germany had been doing, when they had criticised expressionist and abstract art, as being ‘entartet’ (degenerate). The main function of a critic was to provide information, Cor Blok added. The art historian, art critic and artist, Carel Blotkamp, praised K. Schippers for the way in which he shared his sincere amazement with his readers. The art critic, Lily van Ginneken, criticised Komrij’s view that art was supposed to be beautiful. The art critic and exhibition curator, Saskia Bos, distinguished between three kinds of art criticism: an impressionistic one, that emphasised personal impressions; the intentional one, that launched a statement up-front, but that  also had recourse to irony and ambiguity; and, finally, the intrinsic one, that linked an objective point of view to a formal analysis of the artworks in question. The art critic, Walter Barten, took up a position that might be characterised as the most ‘postmodern’ of them all. He said that there are no longer any strict, universal standards for judging a work of art: ‘My judgements are changeable and subjective’, he concluded.

Of course, AICA became involved in the discussion. On the initiative of Tineke Reijnders, with the support of the Museumjournaal, an encounter was organised, in which a number of critics from both abroad and The Netherlands were invited to take part in a colloquium. The title of this, Are they Writing like Mandarins?, was coined by AICA member Magda van Emde Boas, and illustrated the problem very well. Within AICA there was a growing concern that art criticism had become ever more dependent upon the critic’s intellectual abilities and way of thinking, and that the role of the critic, as an intermediary and provider of information, would suffer, as a result.

A number of international critics, Peter Schjeldahl, Pier Luigi Tazzi, Germano Celant and Wolfgang Max Faust, together with Paul Groot, Marianne Brouwer and Anna Tilroe, from The Netherlands, gave talks and also debated among themselves, and with the audience. The event was chaired by Saskia Bos. Some of the participants in the conference did not submit their contribution for later publication, among them Donald Kuspit, Thomas McEvilley, Pat Steir and Marie-Pascale Gildemijn. Some speakers limited their contribution to simply offering an overview of the history of art criticism, without getting involved in the polemics of the debate. Some sad minds took the floor as well, but some gave humorous advice, such as Peter Schjeldahl, who suggested that if art critics started writing as sports reporters, they would surely attract a larger public. Marianne Brouwer gave a description of the powerlessness of art criticism, because the moment some kind of ideology was ascribed to artworks it was immediately taken down again by art itself. Art criticism would always be overtaken by events. As a sad mandarin, Pier Luigi Tazzi closed his contribution, a poem, with a celebration of the small fantasies, enormous vanity and large uncertainty of the critic. Stuart Morgan confessed that a critic in the United Kingdom was seen as an idiot, while Germano Celant saw himself not as a mandarin, but rather as a samurai, a fighter whose projects could exert some influence on culture. Anna Tilroe adhered to a definition by Peter Sloterdijk: ‘Working as a critic is practising an intellectual freedom, as art is as well.’ They were equal, but not identical. Art criticism indeed was a specialism, according to Anna Tilroe, but not for the sake of that specialism.

Four years later, in 1991, AICA, together with the Van Abbemuseum in Eindhoven, organised another conference about art criticism, entitled Writing About Art, which offered an interesting comparison with the earlier conference. Bice Curiger, editor of the magazine Parkett, expressed a feeling of uneasiness about the growing power of gallerists, art dealers, museums and, as she put it, the ‘quick art collector’. The art critics came out worst. She underlined the importance of independent criticism and pleaded for more support. Paul Groot, in his contribution, emphasised the importance of connecting works of art to ‘a certain kind of independent thought’. He saw himself mainly as a critic, ‘because of his own creation of language.’ What strikes us now, when reading the proceedings of this conference, is that the threat to independent art criticism might also have been coming from a totally different direction. European and America art historians and critics, Carel Blotkamp, Bice Curiger, Charles Harrison, Dan Cameron, Alan Cueff, Stuart Morgan and Paul Groot, were sometimes heavily attacked by well versed artists, such as Joseph Kosuth, Ludger Gerdes, Marlene Dumas and Juan Muñoz. The British art critic, Stuart Morgan, did still see a role for critics as double agents in the territory between artists and audiences. That position, however, led to a situation of distrust on both sides, he said, and he asked on whose side the critic was, in any case. He then went on to declare that there was only one possible answer: his own! Morgan’s fellow countryman Charles Harrison, as a member of the collective Art & Language, said he was closer to the artist, for which he was heavily criticised by Joseph Kosuth. Marlene Dumas, too, was very clear about the relations between artist and critic: ‘I write about my own work because I want to speak for myself. I might not be the only authority, or even the best one, but I want to contribute, in writing my own history.’

The closing discussion, chaired by Saskia Bos, with the art historian and critic Antje von Graevenitz, the writer Dirk van Weelden, Ulrich Loock, the director of the Kunsthalle in Berne, Switzerland, and Denys Zacharopoulos, art critic and co-curator of Documenta IX took a closer look at the relations between the art critic and the artist, and the critic and the work of art. The discussion produced a whole range of different opinions and contradicted some things that had been said in the previous lectures about the existing gap between the artist and the critic. Ulrich Loock cast doubt on the artist’s authority, because, he said, ‘when the work is finished, the artist’s relation to it is the same as that of any stranger who looks at it.’ He had had fierce discussions and arguments with some artists, he told us, but some, on the other hand, found it interesting. Loock liked the idea of ‘creating a distance’, as he put it, ‘and creating a space in which the work can reveal itself, and where it can be free enough to function as a catalyst for the development of meaning.’ When we asked Saskia Bos what she remembered of this, she  recalled that she had posed the question of whether curators and artists still saw their contributions to an exhibition or project as something strictly  separate, or  whether it was a process of give and take, and more a kind of ‘boxing contest’ between ‘sparring partners.’ Loock went further, and said that the artist and curator had now turned into accomplices. Some art historians and critics contested this view, but they also did not want to blame a curator, for showing the ambition to act as an artist’s accomplice.

When we look back, we may now say that the cross-over between artist and curator was essentially the result of a process that started with the emergence of conceptual art, when art was no longer the visual materialisation of the artist’s imagination, and artists were allowed to function in a wider cultural and art-philosophical area. The curator, at the same time, was now liberated from the role of artist’s lackey. The art critic, for his part, was beginning increasingly to view his own work as philosophy, or art, and/or as literature.

Conclusion

During the 1980s and 1990s AICA, acting sometimes in cooperation with various institutions or magazines, organised numerous lectures and meetings about the foundations of art criticism at a time of tremendous cultural and political change. Not only our colleagues’ benefited from these, but also a wider audience of interested people. Some topical subjects had been left out of account, of course, because we had not felt obliged to deal with everyday cultural events in the same way that newspaper criticism did. Also, the position of the art critic in the press had gradually and fundamentally changed over time. In newspapers and weekly magazines short profiles, interviews and reports were given more space, while traditional art criticism received less and less space. Written pieces of a more theoretical, philosophical and formal nature appeared in exhibition catalogues and specialised art magazines. And on the whole, faith in the critic’s opinion was diminishing, now that his criteria for evaluating art had been muddied by post-modernism and globalism, and were often written off, as ‘subjective’. Those with the final say about the quality of art were increasingly swayed by matters of connoisseurship and persuasion. Were we really convinced by a work of art? And did we believe in the intentions of the artist?

Yet it would be a mistake to draw the conclusion that the Dutch members of AICA had been afflicted by a narrow vision. We have tried to respond to developments of the time, but wanted to provide some theoretical depth, too, and have tried to develop a fitting terminology for the art critic’s professional status.

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[1] Schumacher, Rogier: Neo-avantgarde in Nederland. Museumjournaal als forum van een nieuw kunstbegrip. Amsterdam University Press 2010; in a series about criticism in the Netherlands a book by the same author has been published as: idem: Kunstkritiek als exact vak? De kunsthistoricus als criticus 1960-2005. nai010 uitgevers. Rotterdam 2015 (in: Kunstkritiek in Nederland 1885-2015. Ed. Peter de Ruiter en Jonneke Jobse)

[2] Just to remember some of them: Jetteke Bolten-Rempt (Director of the Stedelijk Museum de Lakenhal, Leiden), Liesbeth Brandt Corstius (chiefeditor of the Museumjournaal 1974-1980,  director of the Museum voor moderne Kunst Arnhem), Rudi Fuchs (successively director Stedelijk van Abbemuseum Eindhoven, the Gemeentemuseum, The Hague and the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam),  A.M. Hammacher (director of the Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller, Otterlo), Reinilde Hammacher - Van den Brande (chiefcurator modern and contemporary art of the Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam), Paul Hefting (curator Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller, Otterlo), Hans Hoetink (director Mauritshuis, The Hague), Hans Jaffé (Prof. Modern art history, University of Amsterdam), Ellen Joosten (curator Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller,Otterlo).

 [3] Besides  articles and books for scientific purpose, they wrote also texts for books, catalogues, journals and magazines in a mixture of art historical and art critical style.

[4] Following the exhibition Max Beckmann. The Triptychs. Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam 1981-1982.

[5] This magazine existed from 1955 to 1996 and was founded by the Dutch museums of modern art; getting a new name in 1989 as Kunst & Museumjournaal, having been published for 19 times.  Paul Groot and Frank Reijnders met Baudrillard in 1988 during the AICA-congress in Buenos Aires as Groot told Rogier Schumacher in an interview: ‘Als je het expliciet maakt, dan is de waarde weg’. Gesprek met Paul Groot over het postmodernistische discours. In: De Witte Raaf, jan.-feb., 2012  pp. 22-23