“Is it a hoax?” Why is it that some variation of this anxious question accompanies so much of our experience of contemporary art? Why is it, to speak bluntly, that so much of what we are called upon to admire as art has the smirking, rebarbative quality of a bad joke?

These are not, alas, new questions. They are an integral part of cultural life in the aftermath of the avant-garde. From one point of view, such questions are a sign of decadence, for they underscore the extent to which we have lost our bearings in the cultural landscape. How odd, after all, that we must frequently ask ourselves: Is it art? Is it a hoax? Is it both art and a hoax?

From another point of view, however, the prevalence of such confusion is a sign of health, for it suggests that we are still alive to essential distinctions between art and non-art. In this sense, the nagging questions that insinuate themselves into mu ...

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