The death knell for painting has been ringing long enough now
to have
been heard by generations of artists. To those who esteem high
art (no scare quotes,
please), it is a silly notion,
more a feature of an art world geared
toward novelty than a prognosis of the medium itself. This season
alone has seen top-drawer exhibitions of
painting, and artists continue resolutely to dab at their canvases.
More than a few of them, however, have grown accustomed to the fact
that their chosen medium is
considered by many to be outmoded. (That it is so
considered, more likely than not, by those who make art their
business is one of the peculiar ironies of our
day.) In the January issue of Art in America, the critic Lilly
Wei wondered, “Is there still a place for this kind of art, or is it
just something in which we used to
believe?” Wei was writing about the work of a specific artist, but
her doubt goes to the art of painting itself. What is
disheartening is that Wei likes painting.
That even its advocates become fidgety looking at—
and, presumably,
deriving pleasure from—
painting, makes one realize how pervasive
the “painting is dead” conceit really is.

Several recent exhibitions of painting attested to the
medium’s ongoing viability. Whether the Chuck Close
retrospective at MOMA was one of them
is debatable. In a radio interview, Close stated that he was “an
old-fashioned artist.” He is, in actuality, a