Another year of seeing art, reading books and watching movies and finding myself incredulous at the gap between critical response and my own has been fruitful, if frustration can bear fruit that is. A year of finding responses by cultural critics utterly predictable. A year with far too much cant, hypocrisy and stupidity to take lying down.
Art, 'the arts' I suppose, is such a significant part of my life that it's not that strange that one should feel so passionately about a dearth of critical depth, rigour and sensitivity that one feels driven to blog.
Kritique is, then, an antidote to the banality of criticism and a celebration of the transcendence of art. I can only summarise my own manifesto on art in the words that Joyce gives Stephen Dedalus, when speaking of literature, it is "the eternal affirmation of the spirit of man". I've believed that for twenty five years now I'm trying to define what that might mean.
Kritique will be:
Honest, fallible, transparent and passionate. It will try to be much more than that, and one day might even look like a blog... but you might have to be patient.
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