Art
Ten-year stretch
Giles Auty reminisces about the ups and downs of being an art critic
The arrival on my desk of a smart new Spectator pocket diary for 1994, in a beguil- ing shade of puce, prompts the sobering realisation that it is nearly ten years now since I began writing for this weekly. My first piece was published in May 1984.
As that was the first time I had written a regular weekly column, I was not too sure what to expect. But I was soon stripped of any illusions I might have held about the importance of my office while attending an exhibition by a fashionable Scottish artist. Because of the artist's youth, good looks and ancient family, a major glossy maga- zine had sent along a glamorous young photographer and her adviser. The photog- rapher pointed at me. `Who's that man?' `Oh, that's Giles Auty, art critic for The Spectator.'
'Isn't there anyone important here?' the photographer replied impatiently, turning away. It is never too soon to learn such a lesson.
What has changed most over the ten years? The art business went from boom to bust and has now begun to hit some more realistic median, but I fear the plushy mid- Eighties may never come again. Ten years ago far fewer galleries used public relations advisers. Press releases did not herald each coming event in glowing superlatives, nor did young women telephone me daily from this or that branch of Mammon Interna- tional: lahls Auty? Fiona heah. I'm just checking you have received the lunch invi- tation we sent you for the 25th. ' Such women make beavers look like shirkers.
Another very important change for me over the decade has been the steady increase in the circulation of this paper, bringing 30,000 new readers to address. More and more people feel they are as likely to find reasoned argument and reporting in these pages as anywhere. My own aim is to present a true picture of the inner workings of the art world. In spite of the low opinion of us held by the chairman of the Arts Council, I think British critics remain a lot less cowed than their counter- parts in Germany and the United States. One of the major pleasures of the last week was to read a wonderfully witty debunking of art-world folly by one Anne Gregory, a writer previously unknown to me, in the latest edition of Modern Painters. While such sharp minds survive, the future of liv- ing art gives grounds for hope, even though our system of running it may still leave something to be desired. Ten years ago suggestions that the Arts Council had out- lived its usefulness would have been looked on as unthinkable. Today this proposition is widely discussed and one wonders where such questioning may end. Next we may be querying the precise functions of the South Bank and British Council.
Since the distant days of 1984, I have written more than 400 pieces for this col-
umn, reporting from places as diverse as Tbilisi and Turin, Wiesbaden and Washing- ton, Ajaccio and Amsterdam, Moscow and Madrid. On the strength of the travel alone, art criticism could easily be consid- ered a worthwhile career were it not for the stacks of unopened post that await us after even a few days away.
A London art dealer told me recently that his 16-year-old son is keen already on a career in art criticism and longs to put me right about some of my ideas. This is as tt should be. At just the same age I read my first paper on modern art criticism to a spe- cial arts club at school. I can even recall its title, which was wilfully obscure. Indeed, following 'Where no Orchids Fly', the rules of the arts club were changed to ban cryptic or misleading titles. How could members decide otherwise what to miss? Member- ship of the club brought special privileges: those participating were allowed to smoke, turn up their coat collars and even remove their ties if the evening were hot enough. Even at that stage, art criticism was a path to decadence.
On television, reminiscences such as these always end with the question: 'What was your most embarrassing moment?' In my case the answer is plain and arises from a habit I formed from military service not to put the lights on when rising at night. This is sound enough practice in known surroundings but not quite so clever in unfamiliar ones, like, for example, the world-famous Pierre Hotel in New York. It was while staying there that I staggered from my bed at night without troubling the light switch, only to find that the door I had opened led to the hotel corridor rather than the bathroom.
As the heavy spring on the door caused it to slam shut behind me, I could hear more adequately clad revellers chattering their way back to their rooms after late-night parties. I began to wake up properly as I heard the first group approach. If I had not done so I would not have reached the tem- porary sanctuary of the emergency stairs. From this uncomfortable refuge, I watched this and other groups pass by, but it was
also from that fortuitous vantage point that I spotted a cupboard used by the hotel cleaners. Soon, decked in some of the largest overalls ever made, I explained my predicament to the lift-boy who went off to find a spare key. It is to the credit of those who trained him that he showed no sur- prise. Perhaps he had had to deal with art critics before.
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