By Lane Timothy Speidel and Logan Cryer
Introduction by the Authors
What art writing is today, it may not be tomorrow. The form of art writing contorts and transforms like anything else in the world, but it has the dual responsibility of being archival and journalistic — doesn’t it? Maybe it’s free to twist in the wind into whatever shapes emerges from the writer’s heart.
Two longtime Artblog contributors, Lane Timothy Speidel and Logan Cryer, began an email correspondence to reflect on the nature of being art writers in Philadelphia. The resulting exchange discusses motivations, origin stories and anxieties of being published.
Lane Timothy Speidel: Art writing is a form of expression. It can be more factual and research based, it can also be poetic and even take on the form of poetry (one piece can also encompass and interweave these seemingly different tones). It can be a collage of referential material, artists, images, quotes. It involves visual composition, pacing, humor, past and current events. In some sense it’s very challenging, one can’t simply write “about” art without becoming part of the expression itself. I think the idea of being an objective frame or lense for encountering the work is an impossible concept – I take a lot of pleasure in crafting interesting or beautiful language to capture artwork I’ve experienced, knowing that the only chance I have to get anything across is to speak fully from my own subjective experience. I know also of course, formally, as well as culturally, different types of writing; review, essay, ekphrastic poetry as some examples, serve different purposes and functions. Do you consider your art writing a form of expression for yourself? How does it differ from other forms? And how does it intertwine? Do you feel or exercise the need to distinguish these forms?
Logan Cryer: I think art writing came to me as an act of service, not as an act of expression. Whenever I am writing about art, I imagine that I am writing a letter to the artist(s) directly. I suppose the difference from literally writing a letter to an artist is that in art writing, I am using language that hopefully entices others to start eavesdropping on our conversation. To use a cooking metaphor, beautiful art writing is like adding a finishing touch of lemon zest to an asparagus dish; it’s a utilitarian choice but it’s also inherently expressive.
Just like in a good conversation, I try to mimic the artwork when I write about it. I try to use a similar tone, reference adjacent writings, materials, research etc. There’s definitely creativity in this process and I love pushing to see what new stylistic choices I can try while still staying coherent. I would imagine that for you, a much more avid writer who works in more forms than I do, that this relationship is a little bit different. I have never presented my writing in any context where there was an audience waiting to admire what I had written.
Did you start art writing because you had experiences with artworks that you realized you could adeptly put into words? Have you ever struggled with expectations of journalistic integrity and creative expression?
Lane: I love lemon on asparagus. I think your writing does a really good job of what you described. I appreciate the word service, and I resonate with it. I am often enamored by the concept of aligned practices, that we are practicing writing with the selected artist’s art practice, and publishing practices are building a practice of stitching it all together, which creates these dynamic relationships and potential for connection around ideas and materials.
When I began doing art writing formally, I was quite young as a freshman in art school, and it was a paid gig. I remember thinking that I couldn’t believe I was being offered such an easy gig… or so I thought. The Tyler School of Art, at the time, had a program where they paid students to write arts and cultural blogs; the expectation was a little report on different openings or art events you would go to bi-weekly. It was fun, but actually proved difficult to keep up the pace. I had very little oversight as well, so I could kind of just write about whatever weird stuff I wanted to. So I think from the beginning, in a funny way, it was a kind of tool to make income, where I realized I could use my writing skills and deep interest in art to make a product people would pay me for (although not that much).
It’s interesting that you bring up journalism. Are we journalists? I don’t have any training in journalism, so any expectations I meet of journalism are often by coincidence or through backdoor research. If so, I think journalistic integrity in this case would be creating an honest portrait of how the work affects the senses and how you encounter it, and what it makes you think about and why. I think we’re both interested in describing the work, and discovering different frameworks and contexts for it. I’m not an expert about anything that I’m writing about, I’m not an academic, any sources I read up on or research I quote stem from my reflections and interests. Sometimes that does make me feel like a bit of a faker – am I quoting a reference just because that happens to be what I’m listening to, reading, or looking at? I think integrity can also be expressed on the edges and outside of the writing, in a willingness to be wrong, to reassess, to change your mind. Also, in respect for the reader and their mind and their curiosity about the artwork, leaving room for what they think. I strongly dislike when reviews of any kind say “This is bad” or “This is good”.
When and why did you start art writing? What are your thoughts on integrity and how to locate it?
Regarding the audience, how do you feel when you’ve published a piece of writing? What is the response (internally and externally)? Do you feel the audience as you’re writing and publishing it, or does it feel like it just floats out into space?
Logan: Woah, that’s wild that Tyler had a program like that! I feel like so many more people could be art writers if given a public, low stakes opportunity to do it over and over again.
I was trying to remember how I started art writing and realized it’s a bit of a funny story: I was taking a dramaturgy class at Headlong Performance Institute and at one point brought in a piece of writing that reflected some complicated thoughts about a play my cohort had seen together, HOME by Geoff Sobelle. I enjoyed the show but was using the writing to explain how the seemingly unintended racial dynamics of the play could be understood by analyzing Lecoq’s “seven levels of tension,” a concept we were learning about in a physical theater class. At my semester-end review, my dramaturgy teacher admonished me, essentially saying that it was a waste to produce such an effective piece of writing but to not push it any further. To quote MJ, “I took that personally.” So I ended up connecting with a friend who wrote for Artblog at the time and got the ball rolling from there.
For me, integrity is a matter of proper nouns and clarity. In the above anecdote, I considered which names I should include and which to disclude and which details situated my story in a particular time and place and which were personal and detracted from the focus. Adding too much personal feeling, how I felt about the dramaturgy class for example, could reduce the clarity of the writing but sharing too little of my own feelings could also be confusing. I think ultimately the goal is to be as specific as possible while being as clear as possible, even if that means staying in a relatively rigid writing structure. I don’t mind that challenge.
To answer your other question, once I publish a piece, I do feel that it floats out into space. Occasionally people will tell me they read my writing or an artist whom I’ve covered will reach out to me personally but generally, once something I’ve written is published not much immediately changes in my world.
I don’t know if it’s helpful to hear but I don’t think you should worry about being a faker or anything. Your references and knowledge will always be relative and by the standard of the entire human population, you are an expert.
I’m curious about something you said, about a willingness to be wrong, reassess or change your mind. Is that something that you’ve experienced specifically as an art writer? How do you reconcile internal change with being published?
Lane: Thanks for sharing how you started, that’s really interesting! I started publishing my thoughts in the past few years more because I would consistently experience a piece of artwork and have a lot of thoughts, and search for someone else writing similar thoughts to my own, and be frustrated that I didn’t see it anywhere. It sounds like you were moved to continue thinking through this work in public and share those thoughts. Also, yes to taking things personally.
I love your definition of integrity, even though I think we exercise this concept differently, I really admire your discipline. I have trouble with rules, even self-created ones, but then again, I’ve never really been severely edited. We’ve both been very lucky to be supported by Roberta Fallon and Artblog over the years. I find Roberta to be an extremely generous caretaker, peppering in thoughtful questions and correcting grammar. I think it’s difficult when a lot of opportunities are peer-to-peer or self-created. There’s only so much rigorous editing of yourself you can do.
Art writing is a really important part of the arts ecosystem as it’s unfolding in the present moment, and for the archive in the future. How many countless artworks, lost films, and wild performances are there no documentation of, which we have a record of because someone wrote about it? I think about this a lot with the degrading state of support for art writing publication, it is so necessary and valued so little. And often, for value to be associated with what you produce, you have to carry a certain credential or reputation to be published (and paid) in the first place. But there is no limit to self-created opportunities; anyone can publish anything. I publish myself and others through my own press and substack, and you have a robust publishing practice that I really admire.
Specifically with the internet, it does feel like the writing just drifts out into the abyss. So much work and research and worrying about how people will respond – but then you realize almost nobody will respond. It means a lot to me when someone mentions to me that they’ve read something I wrote.
I’m working on establishing a willingness to be misunderstood, because the past is a fixed state that I can’t alter. I love your question about whether words are permanent and thoughts are not… the word obsessed part of me wants to say that the understanding of language is multifactorial and the meanings and uses of words are always shifting. These are the big questions that you ask – I don’t know if I can answer them, the answer is just in the practice. I try to be careful and thoughtful with essays that I’m publishing publicly, but new information comes out all the time, providing a more accurate context or different understanding. I grow very weary when I find myself feeling fearful, and begin adding a billion caveats and establishing material. One of the cool things about writing is you’re kind of just talking to yourself, even if you’re imagining an audience, and why not just say the thought or ask the question, right? The other thing with writing is that it does feel very permanent in a sense, but there’s a time stamp on it, and you can always write more and respond to your past selves. And since we’re talking specifically about art writing, you can always grow in a deeper understanding of the artwork too. I had another writer, Frances Beaver, advise me to be brave and “fail in public” when I was feeling fearful of publishing a book of short stories I was working on.
I’m curious if you have an answer to these very big, thoughtful questions about permanence and change, and writing.
Have you ever felt that a piece of your writing was understood in a way that you didn’t intend, whether in the process or after publication?
Maybe you could talk about your publishing practice too, and the concept of fear and failure in that process?
Logan: I’m sure people have understood my writing in a way that I didn’t intend, but I don’t have an experience that stands out to me in particular. In addition to getting feedback from an editor, I also like to read my writing out loud with at least one other person during the editing process. That helps me get an idea how the words might be received on an emotional or philosophical level.
There’s definitely a fear of failure when it comes to publishing but I haven’t found it to be completely overwhelming. I would consider it a mark of success if Orange Crate Magazine got to the point of influence where multiple people started having negative experiences with it! In the meantime, I can focus on my intentions, learning from the writers that I work with and challenging myself to improve wherever I can.
There’s a lot of new print publications in Philly right now. I keep saying this mantra to everyone, “Four new print publications in two months.” There was my magazine, Orange Crate, and then Teleporter, Grate Full Press, and Tilted. There are probably more I don’t know about. It makes me really excited to know that different people are connecting to each other through words, through art, through the medium of paper!
I like what you said, that the answer is in the practice. Have you considered how your practice will shift once Artblog closes?
Lane: Artblog closing – how sad and dear and still bittersweet knowing about these new publications’ opening.
I think part of the practice of making a product is responding to desire. Often I receive asks from artists and curators, or gallerists to write about their current or upcoming exhibitions. There is my own desire that really decides it. Often, when folks ask me to write about their work, it is with the expectation that it would be published in Artblog, or I would seek out another publisher, but only once has someone offered me money and published it themselves. Artblog ensured that I would be published to a readership and that I would receive some compensation. This is small, but small things are what ecosystems are made of. I think that reading good art writing is the second-best thing to being in person. High-quality documentation is not always possible, and even with that, we are so soaked in flat digital images that I think writing is a necessary way for both the writer and reader to truly take the time to manage and translate sensation more slowly. Artblog did a rare and wonderful thing, and speaking with Roberta the other week, she made it clear that the intention was from the beginning to pay writers and to support artists.
So, how will it change my practice? It most definitely will, but how remains to be seen exactly. My hope is that Artblog closing will be like an old tree falling in the forest, it will encourage younger trees to shoot up and fill the canopy. Not only in terms of publication and platforming writing and expression, but also in material support.
Read more articles by Logan Cryer on Artblog.
Read more articles by Lane Timothy Speidel on Artblog.
