In my journey as a sommelier, I’ve worked in fine dining in New York City for over a decade. I began dating an artist last year and now regularly attend gallery openings and even museum galas.  Exploring this new scene reminds me of the rarified culinary world in many ways. One thing that drives me crazy is that you can have multi-million-dollar art on the wall and billionaire guests, but the wine they serve at events is the equivalent to grape-flavored toilet water—a very poor pairing indeed.  It hurts my taste buds and does not enhance my appreciation of the art. Why doesn’t the art world care about something so important and beautiful as wine?

We are sorry to hear about your corked experience with art wine. Though the selection might come off as an afterthought at these events, the ubiquity of bunk cheap vino you have encountered has everything to do with the arid, inhospitable, and disease-prone terroir of the art world. Instead of elegantly balanced libations with floral notes, you have been served ashy “Two-Buck Chuck” decanted in an old Converse sneaker by a scowling bartender. Truthfully, nobody really drinks the wine unless you are a young guzzler prowling for a free buzz. Most are just sipping away the pain of being at an awkward art event by donning a pair of rosé-colored glasses. Next time, rather than fretting about spitting or swallowing museum shart-donnay, consider drinking the art Kool-Aid at these celebrations instead.

I’m a preservationist who took a job at a major archive last year. I was thrilled to work with my boss, who is prominent in the field, but it only took a month to realize that he’s a raging egomaniac. He talks to colleagues in our department as if he is an unimpeachable expert, even though we are all highly trained technicians doing the detailed work that he credits himself for at conferences and public talks. In those situations, he boasts so much about himself and his process that it actually diminishes the artists whose work we preserve. He needs to be reproached by his superior, and I plan to call him out to our director because his attitude and demeanor reflect poorly on our institution. How should I approach this?

Back in the day, it paid off to tell your teacher when the class bully was flicking boogers or calling you names having to do with pee-pee parts. Children are nature’s fiercest narcs, and it is only through social ostracization and playground beatdowns that they learn how not to be baby bitches or whiney snitches. The last thing you expected as an accomplished professional is to find yourself going through pre-K again. Instead of leaning into your crayon-colored playbook, you must handle this situation with all the college knowledge and wellness podcasts in your adult arsenal.

If your boss is as much of a prominent prick as you suggest, then there is no doubt that his boss already knows it. We’re guessing you might be in an old boys club where the shine that your megalomaniac boss brings to the institution nullifies the director’s need to reign him in. Institutions prop up braggarts and big personalities because they desperately need to attract attention, funding, and audiences, and it’s necessary to have a public face who promotes the good work that your institution is doing. The trouble comes when the mouth on that face needs to be punched in the lips.

Before taking any next steps, find out if other team members feel the same as you do about this reprehensible restorationist. If so, form a coalition—otherwise it could come off like you’re pursuing a personal vendetta. Gather evidence that corroborates your point. Document the stupid things this creep says. If you are making specific accusations, support them with hardcore proof. How glorious would it be if you happened to capture your boss talking smack about the director to visiting archivists from Argentina? If the higher-ups try to shoo away your complaint, then your next best option might be quitting. Losing a high-profile position in a field that’s hard to crack sucks, but preserving your inner peace is more important than a bunch of old stuff rotting in a vault.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I am writing as a member of the board of directors of a perennially busy and beleaguered art non-profit. We were recently faced with the excruciating task of terminating our long-standing director. They held their position for well over 30 years, but pressing legal matters and numerous documented acts of managerial negligence finally forced us to take action. We offered a severance package along with an emeritus position that provides continued health benefits. They agreed to our terms but clearly have not accepted their dismissal because they continue showing up to work, which is causing major discomfort and confusion for the staff, board, and everyone involved. Please advise us on how to handle this delicate situation so that we can all move on.

It’s always challenging when a long-serving employee can’t accept a change in their role. We once hired our former masseuse as an administrative assistant and soon found ourselves having to repeatedly ask them to stop kneading us all the time. Their firm touch and exquisite thumb-work was soothing within the sphere of their reiki studio, but in our office it felt more like harassment. This example is slightly different from your situation, but, in both cases, no always means no.

First and foremost, your entire board must have a candid conversation with your former director. A “thank you for your service” email won’t suffice. Bring pastries and explain in a kind yet direct manner that their time at the organization has ended. Gently remind them of their severance package and emeritus position, neither of which kicks in until they stop showing up. You must help them to discover that this transition opens up new opportunities that will keep them involved with the community in different ways. You should also change the locks.

Remember, the goal is to handle the situation with sensitivity and respect for the former director’s meaningful history with the organization. After so many years, they surely made some kind of worthwhile contribution, even if they are floundering in the present. If things progress and they refuse to play along, have your lawyer send a formal letter reiterating the termination of their employment and forbidding them to come within 500 feet of the office. And if none of these tactics work, establish a nice new emeritus office equipped with a rotary phone in a retirement community somewhere in the tri-state area.

I know it sounds ageist, but I’m a curatorial assistant who is being driven over the edge by my senior-citizen bosses’ inability to hit “reply all” to emails. I’ve demonstrated how to do it countless times, and at this point there is no excuse for their incompetence. Important communications with lenders keep falling through the cracks, and I’m constantly doing damage control. It’s outrageous! How can I get them to master this ultra-basic move?

Ah, the age-old (it’s a pun!) problem of getting the elderly to adopt new technology that isn’t even new anymore. Listen, whippersnapper: being ancient is a sad and completely valid excuse for just about everything that you screw up after the age of 40. If you were a good go-getter assistant, you’d be permanently logged into your boss’s account and reading all their emails daily in order to avoid such foul-ups. Your chances of getting the geezer to “reply all” are as good as our prospects of getting our kids to put away their goddamn Legos. The only real way to cajole children and old people alike into doing what you want is with bribes, so try rewarding your boss with a Werther’s Original every time they respond to an email correctly. Keep the supply of hard candies coming and they might even figure out how to add an attachment all on their own.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

As an art historian and freelance contributor of reviews and long-form articles to art publications, I’ve been watching with trepidation as the already limited media landscape contracts. Many of my PhD colleagues are firmly ensconced within academia or pursuing curatorial work, while I have been following my own path as a writer and erstwhile kundalini yoga instructor. Breath is important in yogic practice, and I sense myself suffocating from the lack of publishing platforms. I want to stretch my thoughts, but I feel cramped by the dearth of public space for critically erudite voices. Faced with ever-diminishing opportunities for enlightened art writing, I’m left wondering: Is it time to push aside my pen and concentrate on a full-time Ayurvedic practice instead?

You know, we sort of wonder the same thing. Why struggle to write about art for a living when you can have tight abs and paying disciples who also give holiday presents? You’ll earn way more lying on the floor than you ever would sitting at a laptop conjuring a synonym for fetid (try noisome). And yet, the impulse—nay, the desire—to write isn’t something one simply shakes off. Sure, you can hold a difficult pose using all your upper trapezius, but your biggest muscle is still your noggin. It’s time to decide if you want to be a brainy Branden W. Joseph or a brawny Joseph Pilates.

Yoga repairs the body and unblocks chakras, whereas art criticism feeds the mind and puckers the anus. No one has ever achieved nirvana by assessing the aesthetic qualities of Liam Gillick’s speculative sculptures, but they have realigned their spine by doing a Cat-Cow. Your yoga lessons improve the physical and mental well-being of your students in ways that resonate throughout all facets of their daily lives. Can the same be said of your footnoted rebuttal of Graham Harman’s specific strain of post-Kantian object-oriented ontology vis-à-vis contemporary art? This is a rhetorical question to which the rhetorical answer is a firm no.

Having a viable career as a critic has never been easy, but given your natural limberness and loquacity, there is no reason to quit writing. Why not deliver your aesthetic insights straight to readers via Substack? You’ll have all the yoga-mat space you need to maintain your writer-warrior pose, and best of all, you won’t have to bend over backward for hair-splitting editors who rewrite your carefully crafted words. A few friends may actually feel guilty enough to pay for it. Wouldn’t that be wild?

Last week I bumped into a former art school professor who I completely worship, and we quickly caught up on things. I gushed to him about my progress in the studio and how I’ve pushed my paintings into a new creative zone. Right before parting he asked if I’d dog-sit his pooch while he’s in Italy for the opening of his museum show. It was totally flattering to be asked, but his dog is an ugly, flatulent menace. He takes the mutt everywhere, and everyone pretends it’s the cutest, most lovable thing in the world. Even though I’m not supposed to have pets in my apartment, it feels like I can’t decline because this is a good opportunity to connect. Am I right?

It sounds like you two aren’t in close touch and he hasn’t seen your paintings in a while. The honor he dumped on you has less to do with your artistry than with your potential as a walking MFA pooper scooper. Taking this dog-sitting gig would make you the mangy mongrel on a short leash. What happens if you do a good job? Will he give you a bone? Lick yourself, tell him you are a cat person, and go hide in a corner. 

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I’m inspired by the messaging and guerilla tactics of the climate change activists who’ve been smearing food on paintings. I want to do this same thing and already know what museum and artwork I want to attack, but to be honest, I’m scared. How much trouble could I really get in?

Activists are truly turning up the heat on museums with their push to get the public to chill the Earth before mass extinction. What’s the point of hoarding masterpieces when there won’t be anybody left to see them? That’s how much trouble we are actually in. Stop worrying about your personal safety and start perpetrating climate-action art spectacles that make a definitive difference. Perhaps you will find yourself: throwing warm sauerkraut at a Jordan Wolfson robot, Gorilla-Gluing your taint to a painting by Dana Schutz, splotching a cream cronut on a Chuck Close, or pointedly urinating on an Andres Serrano photograph. Keep your manifesto on-hand to shout at befuddled bystanders, or better yet: write it on your chest because you are about to be the main attraction at the museum.

I attended an East Coast graduate school and lived in Brooklyn for almost a decade before moving to the Midwest to teach. Juggling work and a family means that I rarely have time or money to travel to see shows or old friends. My grad school alumni email list lets me keep tabs on my peers, but it also causes significant stress and insecurity, which is why I never post and rarely reply. The list occasionally falls prey to a handful of antagonistic people who love to stir the pot. I was especially bothered by a recent thread where an artist friend was attacked for having a show at a museum that has not been sufficiently decolonized. It was so accusatory and exasperating—exactly the sort of negative energy I don’t need to absorb. I want to unsubscribe from the list, but I fear that doing so will further cut me off from any sense of community and the art world in general. What would you do?

A recent pie chart published in MFA Life SkyMall Magazine shows that some 83 percent of art school alumni want to self-immolate when posting to email lists filled with heavy hitters, tired teachers, forgotten classmates, and total strangers. As for the rest, 10 percent love bragging about their accomplishments; 5 percent absolutely must ask inane research questions; and 2 percent are looking for a lift to Trader Joe’s next Tuesday. The good news here is that your feelings of resentment and shame solidly place you in the majority. The bad news is that, demographically speaking, jagoffs fall into every category and cannot be avoided, in the real world or in your inbox.

Alumni email lists provide space for colleagues to make announcements, celebrate accomplishments, and share relevant information. Most subscribers don’t post or reply because they have busy lives and careers. They stay on the list because, like you, they hope to learn about current exhibitions, get notices about grants, brownnose old connections, and track frenemies. Nevertheless, it is their silence that ultimately gives latent permission to blowhards, dimwits, and the attention-deprived to self-promote, brain-pick, finger-point, ass-kiss, and whine. Think about it: what would happen if you and the rest of the rankled lurkers on the list checked in to say STFU a little more often?

FOMO is justified given your level of remove, but letting a handful of domineering putzes keep you from getting a notice about a group show in Croatia that a rando has a collage in is plain ludicrous. Email lists typically have digests, so try changing your subscription to lessen the stream of messages. You can block the offenders who piss you off the most, but it’s just as easy to have listserv emails automatically go into a special folder that only gets checked when the urge strikes. And like everyone else, you can rush to delete the thousands of unread alumni messages when that warning pops up about needing to buy more storage space. Fuck Google.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I’m a real estate developer with my own firm, and I also collect art. I hired a personal art adviser just prior to the pandemic and now see that our tastes are not aligned. Nothing I’ve acquired through her speaks to me in a deep way, and I’m skeptical that any of it will perform well for me. Walking the Armory Show together in September, she kept nudging me toward ultra-contemporary pieces that I simply don’t like. Nevertheless, everyone there knew her and it was incredible to get such instant access to major players. I want to get a new adviser, but don’t know the politics here. Will I be burning a bridge if I dump her?

Being a top executive, you’ve surely fired many employees. Maybe it was the klutzy estimator whose miscalculations skyrocketed your budget, or the creepy project manager who serially harassed the women on his team. You surely mustered the courage to axe an underling, but in this instance it’s almost as if you’re treating the adviser as an equal, or possibly even a superior. The art world operates on social ladders, and it’s clear that you would have replaced her already if you didn’t hold her contacts in such high regard. The adviser seems to have cast a spell over you, but the only proof of her prowess is a bunch of butt-ugly post-talent art that you can’t even offload to a charity thrift shop.

How is it that you can build corporate complexes and yet have a personal complex that doesn’t allow you to trust your own taste in art? Predicting how the market will perform is a crapshoot, but knowing what you like ought to be a lot easier. Do you let somebody order your food at a restaurant without looking at the menu? You should be engaged in a conversation with the adviser—don’t just let her put paintings on your tab. Maybe you’re intimidated and don’t want to be a party-pooper by saying no, or it could be that you two just don’t groove together, but the best way to avoid hard sells and rectify this relationship is to make sure she knows what you want. You seem to suggest that buying art is more than just financial speculation, which is true. It should be an emotional investment too.

Not being in touch with yourself is what led you to this adviser, so who’s to say that the next one will be a better fit? Remember that you are a walking checkbook and she’s a commission-collecting broker. You don’t need her to mingle with hungry art people who covet your money, especially if you keep buying directly from them. The biggest disadvantage to sacking her is that you will, for sure, keep snorkeling in the same petri dish that is the art world. You may suffer the slings and arrows of her gossip, but bribing city council members and indulging disgruntled architects with giant egos has prepared you for this battle royal.

During the NFT fervor last year, I left a solid job to go work for an NFT platform. It felt like a great fit because tech and art are my specialties. Many friends thought I was crazy, but I went for it in a pandemic YOLO moment. The NFT market tanked shortly after I started and we barely made a splash. My salary was paid in crypto and is now worth virtually nothing. Do you think I can get my old job back?

It appears that you’ve learned a humbling lesson about your own fungibility. We revere risk-takers who boldly leap into the unknown, but banking on the popularity of NFTs was a whopper of a mistake. You used to be the Big Mac, and now you are just plain Fuddrucked. Your old job probably isn’t available anymore, but given your yen for tech, webcamming is a growing field worth considering. If that isn’t your speed, we heard that the Geek Squad is looking for a technology curator at the Best Buy in Weehawken.  

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I’m not a shy person, but I’ve been finding myself in awkward situations as an artist who is regularly getting invited to art gatherings that involve karaoke. Don’t get me wrong, I love singing, but being drunkish or belting out favorite songs in front of curators, gallerists, and other judgy artists isn’t the best. How do I get over my hang-up and enjoy karaoke for what it is? And can you recommend a sure-fire pleaser in case I do have to sing?

Japanese businessman Daisuke Inoue invented karaoke for the sole purpose of allowing people to be jackasses together. He scientifically deduced that the hearts and minds of drunken revelers would be emotionally wrecked by atonal covers of cheesy songs. Like you, we’ve found ourselves nose-deep in an enormous binder of songs, hunting for that perfect tune while dazed from the dopey videos, too bombed to stand but not too blitzed to belt out a party-killing rendition of “Wonderwall” in a dark room filled with art negs. You need to suppress your pride and saunter in with a few bangers that will raise the roof, or possibly bring the ceiling down. Here are a few of our faves:

“Hurt” by Johnny Cash

“Unbreak My Heart” by Toni Braxton

“What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes

“Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M.

“Creep” by Radiohead

“Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine

“Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child

“Walk on By” by Dionne Warwick

“The Living Years” by Mike + the Mechanics

I can’t even get a piece in a group show despite being on a first-name basis with more than a dozen museum directors, curators, and gallerists. How do you transition from a friend to a praiseworthy artist without groveling like a dog? I could list all the many favors and projects I have done for these people basically for free, but the submission box for questions on your website has a limit on space.

Bummer, it looks like you’ve landed in the dreaded “friend zone.” Dry frottage with art gatekeepers is leaving you with hampered longings, crushed hopes, and big blue paintbrushes. Like the historic opera character Pagliacci referenced by Smokey Robinson in the classic song “Tears of a Clown,” you stand around at parties crying on the inside, giving the mistaken impression that your glad expression is a smile when, actually, you are really sad. On top of that, the submission box for questions is much more than a portal on our website. It is the container in which your expectations reside.

After graduating from high school, you can pretty much call any other adult by their first name, so this makes us wonder if the directors, curators, and gallerists you mentioned are true amigos or merely grinning associates. Did you befriend them solely because of their status? We hope not, because impersonal and transactional relationships will only get you into a crowded biennial, at best. Your question suggests that being in a show is a form of exchange, something owed you after everything you’ve done for others. If this were true, we’d all be receiving Tate Modern Turbine Hall commissions and Creative Capital grants without even applying. Real friends—even art friends—don’t always collude. Sometimes they provide support in essential and less nepotistic ways, by giving encouragement, listening, offering tips, and even lending money that you both know won’t be paid back.

You should try approaching people with a no-pressure request for a studio visit. Explain that you are at a critical juncture in your work and would benefit from a trusted colleague’s feedback. While it’s impossible to predict if their epiphany will land you an exhibition, the interaction could provide vital insight into their perspective—and possibly help answer why you aren’t getting the shows you want. If they take up your offer for a visit, then your relationship is genuine. But if they blow you off, it might be time to start hanging out with the nice folks at the farmers market who always smile when you eat their free samples. They seem chill, don’t they?

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

I prospered in my curatorial studies grad program, but they skipped a few crucial lessons. I landed an assistant curator job at an institution in a pretty interesting city, but it’s already clear that I’ll be moving on once I get a couple more shows under my belt. To stand out and get to the next level, I need to make a bold leap with my personal style. Seriously, I want to be iconic like Hans Ulrich Obrist, Antwaun Sargent, and Roselee Goldberg: they all have that X factor. Do you have suggestions for a new signature look?

When orchestrating geek-to-chic transformations for our clients, we start by pinpointing the sort of je ne sais quoi that will make them shine brightly at opening parties and costume galas. Do you have a boring face? Try some funky glasses, mile-wide bangs, and a fake British accent. Feeling bland and forgettable? Start dating your loud-mouth coke dealer, get a lopsided mohawk, and wear underpants on the outside of your trousers. Still don’t think you are good-looking enough? Lose a bunch of teeth in a bar fight so that people will feel perturbed and sympathetic when you meet. And always, remember: it’s all about attitude. You should be the person you want others to think you are pretending to be, whether a Dimes Square teenile, a Deleuzian DJ, a tsk-tsking Karen, a podcasting psycho, or even a German robot. Whatever you do, just don’t be you, ugh.

Self-promotion is the grossest part of being a professional artist. I had a good website built for me over a decade ago, but I’ve been lackluster about adding photos and info in recent years. It looks like I basically stopped making work in 2018. While the site needs an overhaul, my much bigger problem is Instagram, Twitter, and social media in general. It seems that I’ve either been shadowbanned or that my posts are being buried by the algorithm. It feels like no one “likes” my work or even sees it these days. I’m embarrassed to post pictures and announcements that only 16 people ever notice, but I feel obliged to do it anyway. This is causing an unshakable sense of existential anguish. What should I do?

How awesome would it be if making art could be separated from promoting art? That’s how it is when you are a kid, but, after professionalizing, the problem becomes that you have to start acting like an adult. Worse yet, adults have to justify to other adults that they are indeed artists and not just trust-fund babies. Life was easier back when you could just draw a smiling sun or simple stick figure and your parents would tell you that you are talented, smart, and loved. Remember how you believed them before reality somehow shadowbanned you?

Algorithms are engineered to decimate our biggest hopes and dreams. Instead of helping share our achievements with others, they pummel us with ads for stuffed-crust pizzas. Since you can’t beat an algorithm, you must acquiesce to it by posting all the time, commenting on other people’s dumb posts, and “liking” everything you see. Chances are that doing so could result in a timeline bump, but will it make you feel dead inside? Being soulless might help your art world career, but will it extinguish the existential anguish that compels you to write to Art in America advice columnists?

Do you have a child, nephew or niece, or even a tech-savvy cousin who is bound by blood to help you? Try outsourcing your social media to a young person and see where that gets you. Don’t worry that they don’t know the finer points of the art world or the right language for captions—just give them the green light to drum up attention. They are digital natives and will feel no pain when it comes to shilling your art. If you’re lucky, your work might become a virile meme for a hot minute. If you’re not, no one will notice—which is already the case, so it’s not like you lose any more. In fact, you win either way because you will be living life offline and making art.

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

This fall you will be having your first solo exhibition at a gallery in New York. You fortuitously met the gallerist at a reception and, after a studio visit, she invited you to be in a group show. Your piece sold a few days after the opening and was prominently featured in a glowing review. Now you have your own exhibition slated, and everything seems great—except that you are worried. You feel unprepared for all the steps involved, and you’re anxious about the changes to life and career that may potentially come with success. Answer the questions below to gauge how you will fare in some realistic scenarios, then add up the points to see if you will catch a big break—or be broken.

1. The gallerist strongly feels you should make paintings that reflect the news cycle in order to excite curators and collectors. You:

a) Create a body of work highlighting undocumented incel environmentalists in Ukraine who lobby for income redistribution, solar power, and abortion rights in Texas
b) Paint an all-too-real portrait of Elon Musk in flagrante with Sergey Brin’s wife at Art Basel Miami on a bed of burning Bitcoins
c) Draw an epic tableau about the Capitol Insurrection exclusively with the innocent art-markings of a child

2. You thought the gallery was covering the cost of framing, but it turns out they only front the money and you are paying for it in the end. You:

a) Tell the gallerist that the paintings are, in fact, rugs—and that framing them would be against your religion
b) Quickly become a video artist and tell them you need an HDMI dongle, a projector and a case of Heineken
c) Go with the most expensive custom-made frames so that you can take the gallery down with you

3. When overextended movers arrive to pick up the heavy crate containing your massive painting, you notice them grappling with the weight and:

a) Quickly lend a hand, thanks to muscle memory from 10 years as an art handler
b) Sip your Nespresso and remind them that the work is extremely fragile as they hobble out the door
c) Photograph their struggle for an Instagram humblebrag post about studio life

4. The gallery’s artspeak-heavy press release describes you and your work in ways that you find uncomfortable and unintelligible. You:

a) Act like a full-blown doofus at the opening to invalidate their claims
b) Rewrite it with word-salad cribbed from your MFA thesis statement
c) Embrace being a critical art theory A-hole as advertised

5. Art handlers are asking hard-to-answer questions about what you want during the install. You:

a) Airdrop them meticulous millimeter-specific AutoCAD drawings that indicate precisely where all the works are to be hung with laser levels
b) Tell them to do that installer voodoo they do to make it look pretty
c) Argue about nails with them for an hour and then compromise

6. After completing the install, you attend the opening only to discover that the gallerist has removed a few pieces from the show, including your favorite. You:

a) Write “Fascist” on the wall with your own blood
b) Swallow your pride and compliment the gallerist on her impeccable eye and savvy
c) Stay late after and rehang the show to continue the tit-for-tat

7. The gallery has asked you to do a blitz about the show on your social media and have provided language they want you to incorporate. You:

a) Comply and post images with captions that begin “So honored to…,” “I am humbled…,” and “Incredibly grateful for…”
b) Tell them OK and don’t do it
c) Make your posts but then DM everyone to say that your account was hacked

8. You end up seated at the opening dinner with a gaggle of collectors and must charm them in order to seal the deal on sales. You:

a) Captivate the table with a surefire anecdote about the time you delivered a pizza to Jeffrey Epstein’s house
b) Have a heart-to-heart with them about the difficulties of finding a reliable landscaper for their weekend house
c) Gesture to your crotch and tell them that the exhibition was just a preview of the real show later tonight

9. The day after the opening, you wake up with an overwhelming sense of hollowness. You:

a) Hoover a rail of coke off your painter’s palette, pick up your brush, and get back in the saddle
b) Find a poorly shot photo of your show on Instagram posted by a total stranger and feel elated
c) Treat yourself to a set of fancy noise-canceling headphones and an eyebrow wax

10. Many friends said they enjoyed your show without offering any specifics, and it wasn’t reviewed by any critics. This makes you feel:

a) Depressed
b) Deprived of feedback
c) Like 98 percent of all artists

.

Scores:

10–16: Your issues with authority and an overdeveloped artist’s ego have made you brash, but does it always pay to be bold? Playing along will keep you on the gallerist’s A-list, but as a D-student this is possibly beyond your comprehension. Your negativity may make your friends laugh, but collectors and curators famously lack a sense of humor. Keep it up and you will become the punchline of your own joke.

17–23: Your easygoing ability to float along with things is your ticket to a long-term semi-career in the art world. This agreeability could keep you on a gallery’s roster for years to come, but the bigger question is: will you automatically get a show every 18 months, or will it take five years of gently nudging and pleading for that next big break? Luckily, in the meantime, teaching full-time will provide health insurance and a captive student audience every semester.

24–30: Behind your back people call you cutthroat, but you are so busy kibitzing and noshing at the bris of your number one collector’s grandson that you can’t hear them. You and your gallerist are a dream team because you know that it takes two to crack a safe. Your qualms about success will quickly fade away once your new art-world-savvy accountant sets up a shell corporation, tax shelter, and freeport scheme.

As a serious painter, I’ve been paying no attention to the NFT art boom. People in my world keep talking about them, but I barely understand what NFTs are and can’t say I especially care, given that my work has nothing to do with media or video art. I’ve taken a couple meetings with crypto companies just to humor my gallerist, and each time they talked in circles about a setup that made a bunch of unrecognizable artists into millionaires. After checking out the work on their sites, I’m still clueless—none of it looks like art to me. Now, a curator I admire wants to work with me to launch a collection on yet another unknown new platform. I don’t see the audience for these digital things being interested in my work. If I sign on, the pieces sell, and then everyone makes money, that’s great—but how bad would it be for my career if my NFTs are a flop? Will it damage the sales of my actual paintings? It took me a long time to build up blue-chip prices.

Wow, you have a high estimation of your art, and like all painters you constantly stress about anything that might sully your handcrafted pictures. Let us remind you that paintings are the original NFTs. Throughout the ages, they have been hoarded like Pokémon cards by royalty, clergy, industrialists, and mouth-breathing finance bros. How is it that you can act as if you are above it all? As a market painter who ultimately produces money-laundering vehicles, you should see that NFTs are kissing cousins to your crass canvases.

Perhaps you don’t believe it, but the tweens, twenty-somethings, and incels of all ages grinding out NFTs deserve a little credit for trying to pioneer a new art form that doesn’t resemble preexisting models. Finding themselves excluded from your fine art world, they smartly figured out a new way to play the game. Sure, their newfangled screensavers mostly suck and are devoid of aesthetic value, but at least these people are reckoning with life in the twenty-first century. Look at it from their vantage point: your analog work looks more like a stillborn than a still life.

It is doubtful that your NFT escapades will damage IRL art sales. Your serious collectors probably don’t stand in lines to buy Yeezy’s latest offerings or invest in neo-Nazi GIFs. If anything, the publicity you generate might bring a momentary blip of attention and as many as forty-seven hits on your artist page at your gallery’s website. In the meantime, consider churning out 1,000 NFT variations of dancing Rasta dolphins and see if you can live with yourself. But given your active disdain for the medium, it is easy to see how fast you are bound to fail in the brave new world.

I’m an artist who’s made money in the last couple of years despite the pandemic. A poet collaborated with me on titles for two shows, and it’s been on my mind lately that I should pay for the help. The poet hasn’t wanted credit for the work and has never suggested any type of payment, but it seems only right. Since I’m paid for my work, the writer should get paid too. Any suggestions on how to calculate how much to give?

An artist in a studio
Writes wanting to know
How much they owe
A poet who bestows
The title for their show

Poems are not free
And poets are poor
Does anyone read
Chapbooks anymore?

Gift them a work
That they will hang with pride
Or maybe offer a piece
They can sell on the side
What the hell
You could just give them some cash
To score a brick of hash

Titles are hard
Which is why
You need a bard
Treat them with courtesy
And they will reward
You verbally

Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com

1. Your ideal art-going companion for the Biennale would be:

a) A gropey gondolier with a pencil mustache and striped boatneck shirt
b) A toothpick-chewing pickpocket with a glint in his eye
c) A newly acquitted Mario Batali in Crocs with Gwyneth Paltrow in tow

2. The most must-see national pavilion on your itinerary is:

a) Ukraine
b) Eataly
c) Legoland

3. In order for you to attend a high-profile exhibition, it must include at least the following amount of female artists in its mix:

a) 10%
b) 50%
c) 90%

4. Longing to cancel someone or something in a Biennale that hasn’t yet generated much controversy, you look for it elsewhere by decrying:

a) Oligarch-owned yachts on display during international sanctions
b) Paying for water at restaurants
c) The ubiquity of holy and unholy genitals in Renaissance painting and sculpture

5. You find Surrealism as a relevant contemporary art strategy in 2022 to be as potent as:

a) A mass bourgeois spectacle to distract from the twin pandemics, climate disaster, and World War III
b) The Whitney Biennial’s domestic take on the exact same thing
c) Gluten-free pasta with no-nut pesto

6. While everyone at dinner talks about a supposedly great exhibition that you didn’t like at all, you would try to change the conversation by asking:

a) “Can you believe what they charge for a copy of Art in America these days? Sheesh.”
b) “OMG, did you try the garlic knots at the Sbarro in the train station?”
c) “How do you think I’d look on a Vespa?”

7. While taking in Simone Leigh’s U.S. Pavilion and seeing a gallerist who once asked you for a studio visit but never followed up, you would:

a) Open a can of Piero Manzoni’s Merda d’artista on them
b) Scream “Ugatz!” while using Italian hand gestures you learned from your nonna
c) Hire your Cosa Nostra friends to deliver a horse head to their hotel room

8. While overhearing a conversation about Anselm Kiefer over breakfast, you would jump in by saying:

a) “The Pavilion of Gelato was a lot better than I expected.”
b) “I happen to be Anselm’s gallerist and wanted to let you know about our 50-percent-off summer sale.”
c) [In a deep Italian accent] “Venice would be great without all the tourists.”

9. Which one of the following are you certain is not an Italian cocktail?

a) Bernini
b) Benigni
c) Bellini

10. If you had to distill your desire to see the Biennale into one emoji, you would select:

.

Scores:

10–16: “Mangia! Mangia! Mangia!” This chant in a scene in Passolini’s Salò, or The 120 Days of Sodom is what you imagine while also foreseeing long airport lines and perspiring crowds. You should just stay home, microwave a Stouffer’s fettuccine alfredo, snort a heap of ketamine, and browse jpegs online to get the same thrilling experience.

17–23: While it costs thousands and takes a whole day to get to Venice, Domino’s can deliver pizza in around a half hour for under $10. Can you really afford to take a trip so far from home? Take stock of your cash flow and your cholesterol levels before committing to a costly adventure that might leave you disappointed.

24–30: Getting on a plane is no more fun today than it was before Covid, but you are rested and ready to deal with the hassles of travel. It is finally time to get off the couch and experience the art world in full bloom. After devouring platefuls of scungilli in Venice, careen over to Art Basel for a link of Landjäger, and then check out the bretzels at Documenta for a summer art trifecta.