Early-twentieth-century Abstraction Is Art's Version Of Einstein's

Don't Talk. I Can't Hear Myself See.

I Don't Often Go To Curator Or Artist Walk-throughs Of Exhibitions. For A Critic, It Feels Like Cheating. I Want To See Shows With My Own Eyes, Making My Own Mistakes, Viewing Exhibitions The Way Most Of Their Audience Sees Them.

As I Made My Way Through 'on Line,' The Austere, Stridently Dogmatic, Sometimes Revelatory Exhibition 'about Line' At Moma, I Found Myself Thinking, 'someone Please Wake Me When The Seventies Are Over!' In The Empire Of Curators, The Sun Never Sets On The Seventies. It Is The Undead Decade.

Anybody Who Writes Knows The Horrible, Wonderful, Beautiful Foulness That Comes Every Week. A Lot Of Moaning, Screaming Agony - "oh My God, The Deadline's Coming."

If The Frieze Art Fair Catches On, I Imagine At Least Two Great Things Happening. First, We Will Once Again Have A Huge Art Fair In Town That Isn't Too Annoying To Go To. More Importantly, Frieze May Finally Show New Yorkers That We Can Cross Our Own Waters For Visual Culture. That Would Change Everything.