By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
I get the impression you may assume that the greatest fate to which a piece of visual art can aspire is to become, miraculously, 500 snappy words in some periodical--that, if the artists weren't so limited, they would have written those 500 words themselves and saved all the intermediate folderol.
It's a little like declaring a cow to be a ridiculous duck, and then throwing a fit because you have learned to make proper ducks do cute tricks.
What is it about the visual arts that invites such condescension? I wasn't tempted to examine your printed words for pictures that might have been found in the shapes and textures of the letters on the page. And had I conjured some up, I would have been a fool to have proclaimed their inadequacy as drawing--or political commentary.
And I can't believe you would approach a tree or a rock and try to do your little trick ("Tree. Earth. Earth nursing life. Bosom of the earth. Women's work. Emotional baggage. Grandma. Family. Nothing new here. Oh God. I'm so bored."). I don't know. Maybe you would. I suspect, though, that you only do this number with art.
Christine, thanks for your efforts, but your responses to the subtleties of the unconscious and the visual life are tired. It's not just you, of course, but I say the whole mode of looking in which you participate, and of talking about that looking, is lame, and I say it's bullshit. Give it a rest.
Editor's note: This error showed up only on theDallas Observer Web site and has been corrected. We apologize for the mistake.
Four-star review: The movie Proof of Life may have been a dud, but Robert Wilonsky's review ("Held Hostage," December 7) was four stars! I laughed right out loud. I never miss his reviews. Thanks!
I like M. Night, but this movie is an example of what happens when your second movie grosses $600 million. Suddenly, you know everything and nobody else knows anything. Somewhere in between is the truth.