You might think it's arrogance or snobbery that leads me to criticize a work of art, and maybe it is – but I'm still right. Jonathan Jones
A piece by critic Jonathan Jones in the guardian entitled "art criticism is not a democracy." He opens with a blunt statement:
The reason so much average or absolutely awful art gets promoted is that no one seems to understand what criticism is; if nothing is properly criticised, mediocrity triumphs. A critic is basically an arrogant bastard who says "this is good, this is bad" without necessarily being able to explain why. At least, not instantly. The truth is, we feel this stuff in our bones. And we're innately convinced we're right.With bragging jocosity, the critic flaunts that no one seems to understand what criticism is, which is why art is so awful. A lack of proper criticism brings forth mediocrity. Now a profound thought: a critic is an arrogant bastard & the reason you read him is that he boasts.
Jones renders truth engrafted & osteopathic!
Dig his epistemic lemma: when you are right you know you're right.
Soon enough Jones is high on rendunditis:
Critics are born, not made. I don't know why I became convinced that I had more to say about art than other people, and an opinion that mattered more than most. But I did decide that – and persuaded others to listen.Not difficult to be "convinced" if you believe it a priori, which is precisely why you have much more to say than regular folk. "Persuaded"? Not the right word. Persuasion entails fine argumentation, not brazen platitudes.
The hell, an opinionated bastard sticks to his defiance.
Of course, by being so blunt, I run the risk of vilification. I will be seen as a vapid snob, elitist, etc. But I am no more guilty of these traits than anyone else who sets themselves up as a professional critic; I'm just trying to be honest.We get that bluntness is a virtue. But there is a bit of a problem. Saying "I'm just trying to be honest" is a bit strange -since honesty cannot be buttressed with self-averments.
Don't let the circularity of self-doubt cloud your unfailing critical clairvoyance.
After all the critic's ballsy drumming above, comes a valley of anxiety (in red) followed by suspicious remorse? (in blue).
So, I'm sorry, but this is the deal. I don't believe my views on film or TV or music are worth anything special. But I do believe –actually I know– that my instinct for what is valuable in art is unusually sure.So, what's the verdict?
In self-grandstanding jonesian: dickheady, hyperactive & redundant with lots of flummery fun.