Culture . 02/29/2008 11:21 AM . Caleb Christopher

I go to a well-respected engineering school, where I’ve equally divided my time between electricity and magnetism and eight foot cowboy paintings. Ironic as it may seem, the only way I’ve found to make it through hours upon hours of number crunching is taking hours upon hours of entirely unrelated art classes.

I’ve much enjoyed my forays into the right side of my brain, but not having taken any art classes prior to college left me pitifully unprepared for the rigorous, exhausting, repetitive form of torture known as the Art Critique.

The Art Critique is where students and teachers interact to provide the artist with “constructive” feedback. The experience of providing and digesting hours of unedifying magnification proves to be exhausting business; I often find myself quickly thumbing through the thesaurus, searching for an original word to describe artistic achievements like… a molded canvas shellacked with vomit.

One such day, I was staring at the hideous piece of work sitting in front of me, hoping – nay, praying – that something constructive and appropriately thoughtful would magically flow from my mouth. The piece in question looked like it belonged in a toilet. In fact, I am pretty sure it had just come from the toilet. Finding material to appreciate was difficult.

At this moment, I had a realization: Good reviews are always obscure, but the best ones are taken to the next level of incomprehensibility. They aren’t intended to make sense; they’re intended to reinforce the reviewer’s artistic credibility. So long as you present your review with the proper pretentious, elitist form, you can review anything you want with minimal effort.

You see, what most reviewers fail to realize is that their review of a certain object or media is 100% cross-compatible, should they substitute a new object or media.

Pitchfork is a perfect example. Below is an excerpt from one of their Swan Lake reviews:

“The song has a fatalistic arc, building and building, from hushed folk minimalism to an autumnal, keening kitchen-sink catharsis: all rustling wind chimes and whistling synths and sputtering guitars. That these elements don’t crash together in an artsy over-calculated Sturm und Drang of “literate” self-reference is a feat in itself. Instead they co-exist peacefully, half storybook village, half rustbelt hamlet.”

Notice how this beautiful compilation of seemingly random phrases come together to form a perfect expression of the music. The same is true for any other review. For example, take the same description, and subject a toilet to review. Replace a few terms here and there and you have a perfect review for Consumer Reports:

“This toilet has a fatalistic arc, building and building, from hushed folk minimalism to an autumnal, keening kitchen-sink catharsis: all rustling aromatic balance and whistling whirlpools of tannic strains and rugged truck-stop overtones. That these elements don’t crash together in an artsy over-calculated Sturm und Drang of “literate” self-reference is a feat in itself. Instead they co-exist peacefully, half storybook village, half rustbelt hamlet.”

See what I mean? Simple, effective, and best of all: unmistakably pretentious.

The Image

Preparing yourself for this new-found elitism is simple enough: start by searching through a trashcan for an almost solved crossword puzzle from the newspaper. Don’t grab a sodden sudoku; everybody and their brother is working them. Crosswords are a timeless activity; pretending to work one is a clear indication of classic hipster intelligence.

Not only is the crossword important, proper storage and presentation of said puzzle is essential. This is where the reporter-style pocket Moleskine notebook comes into play. Yes, I am afraid you are going to have to purchase an 18 dollar notebook. All the elitists are doing it. Without it, your efforts will be completely fruitless. The Moleskine sets you apart, it tells people: “I carry the legendary notebook. I am Hemingway, Picasso, and Chatwin. Get thee behind me, spiral-bound.”

Now that you’re substantially equipped with an almost-worked crossword puzzle, Moleskine Reporter-Style Pocket Notebook, heavy black framed glasses, and appropriate local coffee shop to-go cup, you are ready to roll. Now for the motions.

The Motions

Reviewing is a mind numbing process; make sure everyone realizes you are under great strain. Regular involuntary grunts and guttural noises really underscore the effort, while closing your eyes (not too often, especially if it’s a video), gently stroking your jaw, and making slow, chronic rocking motions effectively finish off the effect. You may wrap your arms around your head if you wish. When you believe your audience cannot wait anymore for your wisdom, wait two minutes more. Then slowly open your eyes, and pretend to have an awakening. Immediately start jotting down irrelevant notes as quickly as you can. Let a few awkward moments pass as everyone curses your Moleskine for its modest size, and then begin your recitation.

Beginning the Review

State your conclusions in a meaningful, yet abstruse manner. Always open with an “I’m sensing” statement to get things started. This will assure your audience that you are basing the review on the recent experience, not something you may have read somewhere else.

”Mmm. I’m sensing a particularly nutty joie de vivre. I’m associating this particular peanut butter with delicate notes of caramelizing passion, leaving the taster with remnants of a predominantly post-conventionalist society.”

After you introduce the product, provide the listener with at least 30 more descriptive adjectives to aid them in understanding its beauty. Most any complicated, syntactically incorrect word-combinations should do, with one exception: Postmodernism.

Postmodernism

By far, one of the most overused words in reviews is “postmodernism,” as it been utilized by people with no idea what it means to describe any component of art and culture for well over 50 years. True elitists understand the unoriginality and meaninglessness of this phrase and have settled on a new term: “premodernism.”

This elegantly subordinate antifreeze combines the unique characteristics of premodernistic premonitions with a smooth liquidity, culminating in tasteful, machinist restraint and cooler engines.

As we can see, this new phrase finds a home in any reviewing situation, be that music, wine, or tomato cages.

The Activation Point

When you reach the middle of the review, you should introduce the “activation point” of the product. In art, this is generally the bright red line that splits down the middle of the canvas, or the thin circle surrounding the distended banana. For 3-ring binders however, the activation point for me is always the extra protection, gap-free ring design. Really, it is any point of the piece that you feel you can accurately name. Modern art renders the “activation point” difficult to determine. If all else fails, just point out one component of the song, album, film, or piece of artwork, and in a meaningful voice, note its activating potential.

The preconceived notions of tranquility and disillusioned philosophies associated with the common herb garden are conveniently dissolved with the flecks of activation these poppies provide as they trail effortlessly through the thyme and rosemary.

The Conclusion

You should wrap up your review with a conclusive, irrational statement that makes less sense than the rest of your critique. Follow something along these lines:

The seeming disarray of space and environment evoked by the unequivocal patterns in this Asian floor rug serve as a silver lining to the overall confluence of the fundamentally self-revelatory theme.

Now, breathe a sigh of relief ( not audibly ), and tip your head slightly to your audience so as to demonstrate your humility. You’re done. Before anyone follows up with questions, immediately take an urgent phone call, gesticulate wildly, and exit the room. You’ve successfully left your audience awed by your connection to the subject, baffled by your analysis, and ashamed that they didn’t understand a word. Rest assured; they will never bring up the subject again.

If you simply model the steps I’ve outlined, you no longer need to experience feelings of shame or self worthlessness. Knowing nothing about transmission controllers or tomato-based paint will never again be an issue. Just remember, everything always relates back to the autumnal, keening kitchen-sink catharsis; sometimes you just have to look a little harder.

Caleb Christopher is Kritik’s esteemed web guru, and a Senior at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. He does not plan to pursue a career in art. Or engineering.


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