It was with a heavy heart that I closed my gallery last fall. Proud of all that the gallery had accomplished over the years, I noted some highlights in a closure announcement that I sent to our mailing list. I was flooded with warm responses, yet it saddened me that no art press reported on our departure. Our shows might not always have received significant reviews, but it would feel great to be recognized for the blood and sweat we poured into the business. Is it too late now to get any farewell coverage?

Oh, downtrodden former gallerist, we see you flatfooting the earth among the unwashed masses. The art world is a fickle and merciless mistress who will never thank you for the diamonds, pearls, and quarter-page Brooklyn Rail ads you have festooned on her. No, she’ll hurl these gleaming gifts in your face before striding off with another gallerist whose star-studded roster makes yours look like a gaggle of dumpster divers behind a Dick Blick. The art world we just personified could be a “he” or a “they” too, but our point is that the love you’ve expended will never be fully reciprocated. Doesn’t that stink?

Closing shop is a bitter pill to swallow, but as you pointed out, gallery closings are the trend du jour, so at least you don’t have to feel alone. Given the paltry critical attention your shows received over the years, you already knew that the freeloading freelance art press is picky, and that publishing space is rooked up. Galleries are not so different from restaurants in that they are extremely grueling to run and most of them ultimately fail. Did you watch The Bear? Did it stress you out? Imagine a similar show about an art gallery. Would you binge it? We could reassure you that this closure is just a career bump, and encourage you not to give up, but why would you want to open another gallery in the same hostile environment?

The issue here is that you are focused on the attention that you didn’t receive rather than the accolades that friends and colleagues spent real time writing. Why not hold on instead to the warm glow you get when recalling all the amazing moments that made the gallery so personally rewarding. If you still have the energy, maybe the solution is to whip up an unforgettable Hermann Nitsch-esque blood-and-entrails farewell event. It might leave a bad taste in people’s mouths, but not enough people appreciated your cooking in the first place.

I was invited to participate in a “curatorial intensive” in Eastern Europe. It’s a financial stretch for me to attend a program like this, and I have a fear that the workshop is an express boot camp for curators like me who feel stuck in curatorial assistant purgatory. Is it worth the cost, and, more important, what happens at these intensives? How do I know it’s not a waste of time?

Sounds like you’re thinking about attending art sleepaway camp. It’s scary to be far from home in a situation where you have to share a bunk with motley independent curators and Euro-strangers. If you go, you will make new international friends who have different eye-opening perspectives to share. Unless they are psychos, the other attendees will likely be as anxious as you are about this intensive experience. The enrollment fee may be high, but you can expect plenty of arts activities, group exercises, karaoke, wine drinking, and heavy meals that will become forever memories. You will make pen pals for life and might even leave with plans for more art theory–filled sleepovers in other countries. Be sure to pack your favorite books and Powerpoint slides. Don’t forget your e-flux login or Advil for this aesthetic adventure filled with art world ghost stories and moonlit dreams about shows and QR codes you will produce one day at a remote Kunsthalle. 

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

Your paintings lack dimension, your photos aren’t in focus, and your sculptures can’t stand up on their own. A kind teacher with funny glasses suggests that you might be your own best material. After watching a couple Ron Athey and Linda Montano videos, you wonder: should I make performance art? Before risking it all in public, test your readiness by taking this survey.

1. How comfortable are you with constantly challenging and reinventing your artistic identity?

a) I don’t know who I am, so what does it matter?
b) If that means wearing wigs, count me in
c) Sorry, I can only be me

2. How important is it to have a direct impact on your audience’s emotions?

a) I want everyone to throw up
b) I want everyone to cry
c) I want everyone to regret coming to my show

3. You see someone half-naked and convulsing in an irregular trancelike manner. You know that they are:

a) Deep in a K-hole at a Bushwick rave
b) Swatting away murder hornets
c) Practicing “movement research”

4. How well do you handle criticism and rejection?

a) Criticism helps me grow
b) Criticism is valid
c) Critics are all failed artists and I reject everything they say

5. How ready are you to push boundaries and challenge societal norms?

a) Society did this to me—now I’m doing it back to society
b) I transcended using deodorant, so I am above it all
c) I believe in family values and chastity

6. How important is it to make a statement or provoke a reaction through your art?

a) Art makes people feel better about bad things
b) I want people to question their own culpability while I desecrate a Hello Kitty doll
c) Your protests won’t stop me from shaving off my eyebrows 

7. You have no problem stapling a handwritten manifesto inked in your own blood to your scrotum. You are inspired by:

a) Chris Burden
b) Johnny Knoxville
c) Tucker Carlson

8. How do you feel about the possibility of performing in unusual or unexpected locations?

a) #keepitweird
b) Performing in Alabama would be strange, but I suppose it can be done
c) I’m developing a series of monologues to be staged in public restrooms along Interstate 95

9. How do you plan to make a career from your performance art?

a) I will sell my soiled undies on OnlyFans
b) I will sporadically adjunct before becoming an astrologist
c) I will ask “cup or cone?” in a fake Danish accent while scooping at Häagen-Dazs

10. Which of these insiders can advance your performance art career?

a) Rube Goldberg
b) Whoopi Goldberg
c) RoseLee Goldberg

SCORES

10–16: 

The only person you should perform for is your psychiatrist. Keep off the stage if you want to stay in touch with your quick-to-shame family.

17–23: 

Karaoke is a fun way to loosen up, but for most it takes a couple drinks to hit the high notes. How drunk do you think you have to be to get a show at The Kitchen? Be careful or you’ll find out.

24–30: 

Chances are we’ll be seeing more of you soon, by which we mean your glitter-and-cashew-butter-covered naked body. You might not be able to paint, but you sure can muck around.

I made a realization the other day that has left me quivering: after years of study and toiling in all sorts of art world roles, I’m finally the director of a nonprofit art space. This is what I wanted all along: an established venue to present uncompromising programs that other institutions would never support. We’re a small organization, and I find myself managing deliveries, cleaning the bathroom, and, worse yet, gallery-sitting on Saturdays when I should be curating shows and fundraising. I’m beginning to think I might be moonlighting as a janitor for the rest of my days. Am I the only one in such a bind, or am I just bad at delegating?

True, you would never catch Glenn Lowry or Lisa Phillips pushing a rickety dolly or restocking toilet paper in the crapper. But guess what? You work at a nonprofit! There will never be enough staff, protocols, time, money, or hand soap to properly do your job. They conveniently don’t mention this in arts administration and curatorial studies programs, but never forget that the same person who ingloriously unclogs a toilet with a broken plunger uses those very same hands to write a press release for the upcoming exhibition. In your case, it isn’t a matter of learning to delegate or rising above the fray as an ascendant director. You must truly accept and savor the madcap energy of being both a master plumber and a master of arts.

I’ve noticed that my art elicits a fairly predictable reaction from viewers. People ask questions about my techniques and materials, but no one is interested in addressing the content. I acknowledge that my art is complex and that how I make it contributes to the work’s value, but for me it isn’t just about labor. The end result matters as much as the process, if not more. I want to connect with my audience about ideas and all the things that go into my art. Should I try dumbing it down a bit to boost engagement? I’m not thinking about completely changing paths, but should I lean toward making work that might grab people in a different way?

Recent writings on “research art” have prompted us to do our own investigating, and what we’ve discovered is that many artists are basically doing the same thing. Whether that means rearranging items in dusty archives or churning out drippy, drabby, talky stuff that people who do too many residencies make, there’s a lot of similarity out there. What this reveals about the culture of contemporary art is hard to say, but what’s even more difficult to say is anything at all when faced with art that’s barely “interesting” enough to insult it with that coded word.

As a committed art viewer, you surely know that work that looks, acts, and behaves like art rarely leads to aha moments or gotta-know questions. Great art may leave you speechless, but humdrum art makes you swallow your tongue. People resort to asking about technique and process because they are either genuinely curious or, more likely, grasping to come up with a polite response. Your art might indeed be very smart and well-made, but you shouldn’t confuse complexity or intricacy with value. Even bad art can take a long time to create. The challenge facing you is less about spoon-feeding dummies and more about being a better communicator.

Your note is very direct in the way it conveys your central problem. Would you say the same is true of the ideas embedded in your art? Can viewers look at your work and deduce meaning without reading a dense handout or, worse yet, having to get it explained by the artist? If the answer is no, think about what you are attempting to convey and consider how it might be received by someone who isn’t you. If anything, you should try to communicate more clearly so that others notice the message. Your audience isn’t stupid, but your work will be if you dumb it down. 

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I know you’ve covered a range of topics and AI continues to be a hot-button issue in the art world. A fascinating group of people collectively purchased a painting, the “Flaget Madonna,” and recently claimed the work is by Renaissance master Raphael after using AI brushstroke technology. The findings were covered by esteemed publications, but they struggle to have the art world accept the claim of authorship without an authenticator from a major auction house getting onboard. Why is there resistance from the art world to using this accurate and unbiased tool? Does AI make art connoisseurs obsolete when it comes to authenticating artwork?

Look, AI, there’s no need to pretend: you obviously machine-generated this question. Sure, a clever publicist working for the chagrined flippers who bought l’impostore Raphael probably made you write it, but only a neural network that so vastly underestimates human intelligence would come up with this angle. Anyway, your question is a little above our human brains, so we asked ChatGPT to have the character played by Al Pacino in the film Scent of a Woman provide an answer:

“Hoo-ah! Well, well, well, look who we got here! Lt. Col. Frank Slade, reporting for duty as your happy-to-help advice columnist. Now, let’s dive right into your art predicament, my friend.

So, what we got for ourselves is a fascinating painting, the “Flaget Madonna.” Some smart folks went and used that fancy AI brushstroke technology to confirm it’s a genuine Raphael masterpiece. And they even got themselves a mention in he Wall Street Journal! But here’s the kicker, they can’t get any of them pouty, snooty art folks to accept it without an authenticator from one of those major auction houses stamping their approval on good ole AI.

Why in the world, you wonder, would them art world folks be resistant to this accurate and unbiased tool? Well, darlin’, there are a few reasons for that.

Firstly, art connoisseurs and experts, bless their hearts, they’ve been around for ages, honing their skills, studying up on brushstrokes, and absorbing all the knowledge they can get their hands on. They fancy themselves as the gatekeepers of all things art-related. So when you come along with your AI brushstroke technology, it’s like, hoo-ah, you’re crashing their fancy tea party and threatening their authority.

Secondly, art authentication ain’t just about the strokes of a brush, sugar. It’s about understanding the historical context, the artist’s style, and even the way the paint’s aged over time. Art connoisseurs, they got an eye for all them little details that an AI might miss. They can dig into the archives, track down provenance records, and piece together the story behind a painting. AI might be accurate and unbiased, but it ain’t got no soul, no appreciation for the human touch in art.

Now, here’s the thing: AI ain’t gonna make any of them art connoisseurs obsolete, no sir! It might shake things up a bit, sure, but it’s more like a tool in their arsenal, like a shiny new wrench to help ’em fix things up. The best way forward is a marriage of the old and the new, a collaboration between time-tested connoisseurs and AI. Let them experts bring their know-how and wisdom, while the AI lends a helping hand with its high-speed wifi and objective analysis.

So, my dear reader, don’t lose hope! It’s a dance, a delicate balance between tradition and innovation. Let the art world take its time to warm up to this newfangled technology. And who knows, maybe one day we’ll see art lovers and AI holding hands, skipping through the fields of art authentication together, makin’ the art world a more vibrant and exciting place.

Keep those questions coming, and remember, life’s too short to take it too seriously. Y’all take care now, ya hear?”

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

You attended a major video-art exhibition and wonder if any of the pieces in it are better than the viral TikTok offerings your cousin made. Test your tolerance for moving-image art by answering a few survey questions and adding up your points for each answer with the key below.

1. The wall label describes a work as a “video essay.” You think:

a) “Wow, I love subtitles!”
b) “What a great opportunity to use the restroom.”
c) “Oh my god, shut up already.”

2. The Nam June Paik video-wall installation leaves you feeling:

a) Overstimulated
b) Hypnotized
c) Hungry for bibimbap

3. Multichannel video installations about global social and political movements make you want to:

a) Throw Molotov cocktails
b) Donate to Doctors Without Borders
c) Buy museum-branded streetwear in the gift shop

4. Seeing yourself on a monitor in an installation about surveillance makes you think about:

a) The invisible means of control
b) Our shared lack of privacy
c) How television makes you look 10 pounds heavier

5. Dark immersive environments illuminated by projections give you a sense of:

a) Wonder
b) Fatigue
c) The hotz

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6. Trying to follow along with a video after entering somewhere in the middle is:

a) Like skipping foreplay
b) Easier if you are shrooming
c) OK, because narrative is dead

7. The historic works at the start of the exhibit were:

a) Surprisingly complex given the primitive gear of the era
b) Low-resolution and hard to hear
c) Booooooooooooooring

8. The large-scale AI installation that makes live images on the fly is:

a) A major technological breakthrough
b) A screensaver for rich people
c) 404 Not Found

9. Videos that require putting on headphones make you:

a) Itch from lice
b) Feel more connected to the work
c) Quickly give up and move on to the next gallery

10. Your favorite work of video art is:

a) Semiotics of the Kitchen by Martha Rosler
b) Hell Frozen Over by Bernadette Corporation
c) Hell’s Kitchen by Gordon Ramsay

SCORES

10–16 points: Keep on keeping up with the Kardashians to avoid squirming through another Mike Kelley video or stressing about how to pronounce Krzysztof Wodiczko’s name. Hating the art of our time is OK because you’ve probably always been out of step anyway.

17–23: You delight in the benches that video installations sometimes offer, and don’t especially care what you’re watching so long as it’s entertaining and you can split whenever you want.

24–30: Reared on video games and YouTube, you are the citizen of the future hypothesized by Buckminster Fuller, Marshall McLuhan, and other old nerds who didn’t live long enough to sneak a peek at Pornhub.

I’m a new adjunct professor doing studio critique at an art school, and the program director informed us that we cannot tell students their work is bad. We can only be positive. This has been very difficult because our program happens to have an inordinate number of lazy artists making entirely mediocre work. I feel it’s my job to tell them their work sucks because that’s what I get paid for, and the world needs fewer bad artists. Can I speak my mind? Or is that just mean?

A new adjunct with big ideas about how things should work—yikes, so sorry. You are catching on fast to what the other part-time faculty you’ll never meet already know but will not divulge unless they are tipsy: the majority of students at your art school would be better served studying pool-cleaning at junior college. Also, in case it’s not entirely obvious, your program director is a power-starved urchin who bends over backward to pamper the deadweights who pay full tuition. How do we know this? We’ve been adjunct teachers ourselves.

A good critique helps answer a lot of the lingering questions that artists avoid asking in their neurotic self-interrogations. The only way for artists to gain perspective is to have people look at their art and relay what it is—and, more important, is not—doing for them. Getting a negative or even lukewarm critique can be positive, because it helps make visible what artists aren’t seeing. It also confirms problems that they hope others won’t notice. Even though critiques are subjective, if more than one person points out the same issue during a studio visit, there’s reason to suspect they might be identifying glaring and hopefully addressable flaws.

But adjunct or not, a faculty member telling a student that they blow is bad teaching. Whiplash-inducing critiques can be dished out only by visiting artists who serve as fleet-footed hatchet people ready to voice the unspeakable sentiments that faculty have been repressing all year. That being said, coddling subpar artists is how we perpetuate inferior arts programs and an awful art ecosystem. Teachers should rightfully expect rigor, conceptual clarity, technical skills, genuine ideas, and true effort from their students. Don’t bite your tongue if you have something constructive, insightful, or even contrary to say. But do make sure it doesn’t burst out in a brute-force way that makes the lame-o kid you’re teaching go running to their check-wielding parents. If that happens, your program director will make you pay the price for your student’s bad art.

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I moved to New York City after getting my bachelor’s degree to become a full-time artist. Then the pandemic happened. I’m working two part-time jobs and getting burned out from being in vibey group shows where most of the artists are already on the gallery circuit. It feels as if the only way to advance my career is to meet the right people at a good MFA program, but looking at the websites of the prominent schools where I’d want to go, I don’t see any faculty who I want to study with enough to pay $80,000. Is going to grad school worth it at all at this point?

We just advised a teacher to tell crappy students that their art is bogus, so whaddya imagine we’re going to say about sliding into grad school only for the sake of networking? You’re smart to realize that $80,000 is a significant chunk of trust fund money to blow on social contacts. You’re probably better off being a valued ketamine hookup at the group-show opening than a sitting duck at an all-school critique with teachers who aren’t accomplished enough for your liking. Besides, if you keep on lingering as a fun-loving scenester, there’s a strong chance you’ll eventually be mistaken for an MFA graduate anyway. This is the budget-savers’ tip that they don’t teach in art school. 

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

In my journey as a sommelier, I’ve worked in fine dining in New York City for over a decade. I began dating an artist last year and now regularly attend gallery openings and even museum galas.  Exploring this new scene reminds me of the rarified culinary world in many ways. One thing that drives me crazy is that you can have multi-million-dollar art on the wall and billionaire guests, but the wine they serve at events is the equivalent to grape-flavored toilet water—a very poor pairing indeed.  It hurts my taste buds and does not enhance my appreciation of the art. Why doesn’t the art world care about something so important and beautiful as wine?

We are sorry to hear about your corked experience with art wine. Though the selection might come off as an afterthought at these events, the ubiquity of bunk cheap vino you have encountered has everything to do with the arid, inhospitable, and disease-prone terroir of the art world. Instead of elegantly balanced libations with floral notes, you have been served ashy “Two-Buck Chuck” decanted in an old Converse sneaker by a scowling bartender. Truthfully, nobody really drinks the wine unless you are a young guzzler prowling for a free buzz. Most are just sipping away the pain of being at an awkward art event by donning a pair of rosé-colored glasses. Next time, rather than fretting about spitting or swallowing museum shart-donnay, consider drinking the art Kool-Aid at these celebrations instead.

I’m a preservationist who took a job at a major archive last year. I was thrilled to work with my boss, who is prominent in the field, but it only took a month to realize that he’s a raging egomaniac. He talks to colleagues in our department as if he is an unimpeachable expert, even though we are all highly trained technicians doing the detailed work that he credits himself for at conferences and public talks. In those situations, he boasts so much about himself and his process that it actually diminishes the artists whose work we preserve. He needs to be reproached by his superior, and I plan to call him out to our director because his attitude and demeanor reflect poorly on our institution. How should I approach this?

Back in the day, it paid off to tell your teacher when the class bully was flicking boogers or calling you names having to do with pee-pee parts. Children are nature’s fiercest narcs, and it is only through social ostracization and playground beatdowns that they learn how not to be baby bitches or whiney snitches. The last thing you expected as an accomplished professional is to find yourself going through pre-K again. Instead of leaning into your crayon-colored playbook, you must handle this situation with all the college knowledge and wellness podcasts in your adult arsenal.

If your boss is as much of a prominent prick as you suggest, then there is no doubt that his boss already knows it. We’re guessing you might be in an old boys club where the shine that your megalomaniac boss brings to the institution nullifies the director’s need to reign him in. Institutions prop up braggarts and big personalities because they desperately need to attract attention, funding, and audiences, and it’s necessary to have a public face who promotes the good work that your institution is doing. The trouble comes when the mouth on that face needs to be punched in the lips.

Before taking any next steps, find out if other team members feel the same as you do about this reprehensible restorationist. If so, form a coalition—otherwise it could come off like you’re pursuing a personal vendetta. Gather evidence that corroborates your point. Document the stupid things this creep says. If you are making specific accusations, support them with hardcore proof. How glorious would it be if you happened to capture your boss talking smack about the director to visiting archivists from Argentina? If the higher-ups try to shoo away your complaint, then your next best option might be quitting. Losing a high-profile position in a field that’s hard to crack sucks, but preserving your inner peace is more important than a bunch of old stuff rotting in a vault.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I am writing as a member of the board of directors of a perennially busy and beleaguered art non-profit. We were recently faced with the excruciating task of terminating our long-standing director. They held their position for well over 30 years, but pressing legal matters and numerous documented acts of managerial negligence finally forced us to take action. We offered a severance package along with an emeritus position that provides continued health benefits. They agreed to our terms but clearly have not accepted their dismissal because they continue showing up to work, which is causing major discomfort and confusion for the staff, board, and everyone involved. Please advise us on how to handle this delicate situation so that we can all move on.

It’s always challenging when a long-serving employee can’t accept a change in their role. We once hired our former masseuse as an administrative assistant and soon found ourselves having to repeatedly ask them to stop kneading us all the time. Their firm touch and exquisite thumb-work was soothing within the sphere of their reiki studio, but in our office it felt more like harassment. This example is slightly different from your situation, but, in both cases, no always means no.

First and foremost, your entire board must have a candid conversation with your former director. A “thank you for your service” email won’t suffice. Bring pastries and explain in a kind yet direct manner that their time at the organization has ended. Gently remind them of their severance package and emeritus position, neither of which kicks in until they stop showing up. You must help them to discover that this transition opens up new opportunities that will keep them involved with the community in different ways. You should also change the locks.

Remember, the goal is to handle the situation with sensitivity and respect for the former director’s meaningful history with the organization. After so many years, they surely made some kind of worthwhile contribution, even if they are floundering in the present. If things progress and they refuse to play along, have your lawyer send a formal letter reiterating the termination of their employment and forbidding them to come within 500 feet of the office. And if none of these tactics work, establish a nice new emeritus office equipped with a rotary phone in a retirement community somewhere in the tri-state area.

I know it sounds ageist, but I’m a curatorial assistant who is being driven over the edge by my senior-citizen bosses’ inability to hit “reply all” to emails. I’ve demonstrated how to do it countless times, and at this point there is no excuse for their incompetence. Important communications with lenders keep falling through the cracks, and I’m constantly doing damage control. It’s outrageous! How can I get them to master this ultra-basic move?

Ah, the age-old (it’s a pun!) problem of getting the elderly to adopt new technology that isn’t even new anymore. Listen, whippersnapper: being ancient is a sad and completely valid excuse for just about everything that you screw up after the age of 40. If you were a good go-getter assistant, you’d be permanently logged into your boss’s account and reading all their emails daily in order to avoid such foul-ups. Your chances of getting the geezer to “reply all” are as good as our prospects of getting our kids to put away their goddamn Legos. The only real way to cajole children and old people alike into doing what you want is with bribes, so try rewarding your boss with a Werther’s Original every time they respond to an email correctly. Keep the supply of hard candies coming and they might even figure out how to add an attachment all on their own.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

As an art historian and freelance contributor of reviews and long-form articles to art publications, I’ve been watching with trepidation as the already limited media landscape contracts. Many of my PhD colleagues are firmly ensconced within academia or pursuing curatorial work, while I have been following my own path as a writer and erstwhile kundalini yoga instructor. Breath is important in yogic practice, and I sense myself suffocating from the lack of publishing platforms. I want to stretch my thoughts, but I feel cramped by the dearth of public space for critically erudite voices. Faced with ever-diminishing opportunities for enlightened art writing, I’m left wondering: Is it time to push aside my pen and concentrate on a full-time Ayurvedic practice instead?

You know, we sort of wonder the same thing. Why struggle to write about art for a living when you can have tight abs and paying disciples who also give holiday presents? You’ll earn way more lying on the floor than you ever would sitting at a laptop conjuring a synonym for fetid (try noisome). And yet, the impulse—nay, the desire—to write isn’t something one simply shakes off. Sure, you can hold a difficult pose using all your upper trapezius, but your biggest muscle is still your noggin. It’s time to decide if you want to be a brainy Branden W. Joseph or a brawny Joseph Pilates.

Yoga repairs the body and unblocks chakras, whereas art criticism feeds the mind and puckers the anus. No one has ever achieved nirvana by assessing the aesthetic qualities of Liam Gillick’s speculative sculptures, but they have realigned their spine by doing a Cat-Cow. Your yoga lessons improve the physical and mental well-being of your students in ways that resonate throughout all facets of their daily lives. Can the same be said of your footnoted rebuttal of Graham Harman’s specific strain of post-Kantian object-oriented ontology vis-à-vis contemporary art? This is a rhetorical question to which the rhetorical answer is a firm no.

Having a viable career as a critic has never been easy, but given your natural limberness and loquacity, there is no reason to quit writing. Why not deliver your aesthetic insights straight to readers via Substack? You’ll have all the yoga-mat space you need to maintain your writer-warrior pose, and best of all, you won’t have to bend over backward for hair-splitting editors who rewrite your carefully crafted words. A few friends may actually feel guilty enough to pay for it. Wouldn’t that be wild?

Last week I bumped into a former art school professor who I completely worship, and we quickly caught up on things. I gushed to him about my progress in the studio and how I’ve pushed my paintings into a new creative zone. Right before parting he asked if I’d dog-sit his pooch while he’s in Italy for the opening of his museum show. It was totally flattering to be asked, but his dog is an ugly, flatulent menace. He takes the mutt everywhere, and everyone pretends it’s the cutest, most lovable thing in the world. Even though I’m not supposed to have pets in my apartment, it feels like I can’t decline because this is a good opportunity to connect. Am I right?

It sounds like you two aren’t in close touch and he hasn’t seen your paintings in a while. The honor he dumped on you has less to do with your artistry than with your potential as a walking MFA pooper scooper. Taking this dog-sitting gig would make you the mangy mongrel on a short leash. What happens if you do a good job? Will he give you a bone? Lick yourself, tell him you are a cat person, and go hide in a corner. 

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I’m inspired by the messaging and guerilla tactics of the climate change activists who’ve been smearing food on paintings. I want to do this same thing and already know what museum and artwork I want to attack, but to be honest, I’m scared. How much trouble could I really get in?

Activists are truly turning up the heat on museums with their push to get the public to chill the Earth before mass extinction. What’s the point of hoarding masterpieces when there won’t be anybody left to see them? That’s how much trouble we are actually in. Stop worrying about your personal safety and start perpetrating climate-action art spectacles that make a definitive difference. Perhaps you will find yourself: throwing warm sauerkraut at a Jordan Wolfson robot, Gorilla-Gluing your taint to a painting by Dana Schutz, splotching a cream cronut on a Chuck Close, or pointedly urinating on an Andres Serrano photograph. Keep your manifesto on-hand to shout at befuddled bystanders, or better yet: write it on your chest because you are about to be the main attraction at the museum.

I attended an East Coast graduate school and lived in Brooklyn for almost a decade before moving to the Midwest to teach. Juggling work and a family means that I rarely have time or money to travel to see shows or old friends. My grad school alumni email list lets me keep tabs on my peers, but it also causes significant stress and insecurity, which is why I never post and rarely reply. The list occasionally falls prey to a handful of antagonistic people who love to stir the pot. I was especially bothered by a recent thread where an artist friend was attacked for having a show at a museum that has not been sufficiently decolonized. It was so accusatory and exasperating—exactly the sort of negative energy I don’t need to absorb. I want to unsubscribe from the list, but I fear that doing so will further cut me off from any sense of community and the art world in general. What would you do?

A recent pie chart published in MFA Life SkyMall Magazine shows that some 83 percent of art school alumni want to self-immolate when posting to email lists filled with heavy hitters, tired teachers, forgotten classmates, and total strangers. As for the rest, 10 percent love bragging about their accomplishments; 5 percent absolutely must ask inane research questions; and 2 percent are looking for a lift to Trader Joe’s next Tuesday. The good news here is that your feelings of resentment and shame solidly place you in the majority. The bad news is that, demographically speaking, jagoffs fall into every category and cannot be avoided, in the real world or in your inbox.

Alumni email lists provide space for colleagues to make announcements, celebrate accomplishments, and share relevant information. Most subscribers don’t post or reply because they have busy lives and careers. They stay on the list because, like you, they hope to learn about current exhibitions, get notices about grants, brownnose old connections, and track frenemies. Nevertheless, it is their silence that ultimately gives latent permission to blowhards, dimwits, and the attention-deprived to self-promote, brain-pick, finger-point, ass-kiss, and whine. Think about it: what would happen if you and the rest of the rankled lurkers on the list checked in to say STFU a little more often?

FOMO is justified given your level of remove, but letting a handful of domineering putzes keep you from getting a notice about a group show in Croatia that a rando has a collage in is plain ludicrous. Email lists typically have digests, so try changing your subscription to lessen the stream of messages. You can block the offenders who piss you off the most, but it’s just as easy to have listserv emails automatically go into a special folder that only gets checked when the urge strikes. And like everyone else, you can rush to delete the thousands of unread alumni messages when that warning pops up about needing to buy more storage space. Fuck Google.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com