I’ve always liked Dave Hickey. This was initially because his Air Guitar was the one book of art theory or criticism I could read without feeling like I was choking down something unpleasant because it was supposed to be good for me. So, last October, when Hickey famously “resigned” from the art world (the exact meaning and consequences of which only time will tell), I was eager to hear his reasoning, which, I figured, had to be pretty good.
Hickey’s complaints, first reported in The Guardian and immediately quoted basically everywhere, carry an echo of a quotation (often misquoted) from Hunter S. Thompson’s Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the ‘80s: “The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason…Which is more or less true. For the most part, they are dirty little animals with huge brains and no pulse.”
Last night over after-dinner drinks, a friend told me about Damien Hirst’s collaboration with the Olsen twins: the twins’ signature black patent leather Nile crocodile backpack (which, apparently, is a thing), released as 12 limited-edition designs embellished by Hirst. The Nile originally sold for $35,000; the Hirst edition goes for $55,000, with the proceeds going to Unicef. Nobody’s going to hate on Unicef, but Hirst’s spot paintings already had an air of an artist who’d become too big to fail just phoning it in to make a buck. Repeating the spot imagery on a luxury backpack starts to feel like the art world’s version of the Portlandia “Put A Bird On It” sketch.
Big shots make big targets, and any museum-vetted multimillionaire artist is going to draw some flak. Jeff Koons has attracted criticism ever since his public relationship-as-performance with an Italian porn star-politician (a pretty special combination in itself) was widely written off as an obvious publicity stunt. Hirst has always attracted skepticism, mostly of the “but is it art?” variety, for his dead-thing-in-a-vitrine work, but they were at least monumental. His spot paintings look lazy by comparison, and stamping them on a bag reinforces the idea that he’s become not just a brand, but nothing but a brand. Warhol would approve, maybe, but a lot of us, I think, are tired of it.
What makes us uncomfortable, I think, is the implication that this collaboration may actually be between equals. We dread that there may be some hypocrisy in our criticism of the balls-out consumerism that allows a pair of twins who got famous getting their diapers changed on television to sell handbags for five figures. Are art world celebrities so different from the garden variety? More to the point, are art world celebrities any different from ourselves, and our friends, if we got the success we pretend to disdain but secretly covet? We want to see ourselves as the kid who points out that the emperor’s new clothes are nothing at all, and when one of our darlings pairs with one of theirs, we start to feel the tickle of the breeze on our own naked back.
The truth, I think, is that there is no difference. These art world titans fill our need to have something to worship, and to hate. Like soccer moms flipping through tabloids in the checkout line of the grocery store, we need these gods and demons, to love and to fear, to envy and mock. In the end, the fact that they happen to be artists is entirely incidental. Like everybody else, we’re drawn to epic personalities, and like everybody else, we’ve been eating a mile of their shit just to see where it comes from. That we happen to prefer the flavor of artist shit over actor shit, or musician shit, or athlete shit, is an incidental consequence of subculture, class, and education, and has no bearing whatsoever on the essential nature of cults of personality.
This at least would seem to explain Hickey’s “fuck this shit” decision to opt out of the whole thing. And Hickey is one for whom the system worked: I’m sure the man’s received his share of rejection letters, but I’m also pretty sure that it’s been a while. His criticism can hardly be called a case of sour grapes, but it must resonate with anyone who’s doing good work, not getting the recognition it deserves, and seeing what look like heaps of laurels being stacked on the heads of lazy hacks. The temptation to sweep the chessboard onto the floor and walk away is certainly understandable.
Here’s the thing: gods you don’t believe in can’t touch you. It doesn’t matter what million-dollar deals are being done between people you’ll never meet. It may be interesting, and sure, we may wish for a slice of that action, but it can only suffocate you if you bury your face in it. Art is like Calvinball: if you don’t like the rules, you can change ‘em. I’m not going to second-guess how Hickey wants to live his life; it sounds like he’s got some book projects he’s into, which look interesting, and while they’re not directly about art, I was never entirely sure that Air Guitar was, either. But opting out isn’t the only option on the table for anyone else who feels that way. Nothing the big shots are doing, however frustrating, however misguided, need stop you from making that work, writing that blog post, or running that apartment gallery.
Bumper stickers make for lousy arguments, but there’s one out there that slings a butchered quote spuriously attributed to Mahamta Ghandi: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” The actual quotation isn’t quite as pat, but it’s a decent thought for anyone who’s frustrated with the way things are, whether in the art world or anywhere else:
“If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. … We need not wait to see what others do.”
P.S. Fuck you, Olsen Twins: This is how to use a crocodilian as a fashion accessory: The author’s wife Stephanie Burke with one of Jim Nesci’s reptiles, at Big Run Wolf Ranch.
Of the many branches of contemporary art’s gnarled and twisted family tree, arms and armor appears to be a particularly precarious limb, a long-dead branch likely to be pruned off by any serious storm. More than any other field of art history, arms and armor have come to be associated with the dimly-lit studies of the super rich, typified by Bruce Wayne’s manor in Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman. “Check this out. He must have been the king of the Wicker People.”
There are those of us, though, who notice things in that scene, that most viewers miss: For example, the completely anachronistic juxtaposition, on the armors flanking the door, of close helms and breastplates from the sixteenth century, with eleventh century kite shields decorated with swirling-armed crosses. Five hundred years of history separate the former from the latter, no less than separates the latter from the present day. A close helm would have been as out of place at the battle of Hastings as an Abrams tank at the court of Henry VIII.
Most people watching Batman, even artists and art viewers, wouldn’t know the difference, and couldn’t care less, and in fact would probably imagine the previous paragraph being read aloud in the voice of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. The appreciation of arms and armor is easily treated as an oddball, nerdy fringe of art history, and tainted by association with violence: undergraduate art history survey courses rarely cover the difference between a bascinet and a burgonet. Contrast this with the expectation that anyone with a degree in art, in any medium, should easily recognize the painting The Joker later defaces as Rembrandt’s late self-portrait, and the one he spares as one of Bacon’s popes.
Arms and armor may not be appreciated by as wide of an audience as is painting, but they have their fans, and I’m one of them. As a kid, I remember going to visit my family in Philadelphia, and we must have gone to the art museum; I remember a seeing, just in passing, some maces in a display case and becoming totally enamored. My dad bought me a book on arms and armor on that same trip, and I’ve still got it, much abused and well loved. In my teens my mom bought me a book on the arms and armor of the medieval knight, and I’ve still got that one too. The summer before I went away to college, I went to Europe with my girlfriend at the time, and each time we visited a new city I sought out its arms and armor museum: Vienna and Dresden were both quite memorable, though that latter city sadly lost much of its collection in the firebombing it experienced in World War II.
In August of 2007, I was attending a residency at the Vermont Studio Center, before moving to Chicago to join my wife Stephanie Burke, who had just started school at SAIC. She called me to tell me about the wonderful collection of arms and armor she’d seen at the Art Institute. I arrived a month later, headed down to the Art Institute, and found the long, dimly-lit hall…completely empty, save for a single display case with a few swords lingering.
The hall was the Art Institute’s Gunsaulus Hall, which housed the Art Institute’s fantastic collection of arms and armor until late 2007. Three years later, a small selection of the collection was put on display in the Art Institute’s Galleries 235 and 236, where it remains on view today. The exhibition space is small and so the percentage of the collection that can be shown is necessarily quite limited (although its ceilings are high enough to display an armor for man and horse with the rider mounted, something never before possible at the Art Institute). In that display, a sign indicates that this small display is temporary, pending the completion of a new, much larger exhibition space for the collection, at an undetermined future date.
The Art Institute’s collection of arms and armor comes from the estate of George F. Harding, Jr. (1868-1939), a Chicago businessman and politician who amassed an incredible collection of arms and armor as well as other art and artifacts from around the world. In 1927, Harding expanded his Hyde Park home, adding upper stories emulating a castle. He used this “castle” as a museum to display his collection of arms and armor.
The castle was torn down in 1964 as part of an urban renewal project, and the collection was moved to a building, closed to the public, at Randolph and Michigan. The museum’s chairman, Herman Silverstein, along with his wife Bea, was the subject of a lawsuit by the Illinois attorney general’s office in 1976, accusing the Silversteins of “violating IRS regulations concerning charitable trust laws by mismanaging the museum assets and failing to allow public viewing of the relics.” The Silversteins agreed in count in 1989 to resign, and to turn over to the Art Institute the last $4.1 million of the Harding Museum’s cash assets, to be used to conserve and display the collection. The Harding collection itself had been turned over to the Art Institute in 1982, under pressure from the State.
The bulk of the Art Institute’s collection remains in storage, out of view, but even the small selection on display is well worth seeing. There’s also a book, Arms and Armor at The Art Institute of Chicago, by Walter J. Karcheski Jr., out of print but available online very inexpensively. For my dear fellow viewers who appreciate this odd branch of our culture’s visual history, we will have to content ourselves with these, until the Art Institute makes room for a larger exhibition space for this world-class collection.
“Art Chicago With Higher Ceilings.” This is how one Chicago gallerist, who preferred to remain anonymous, described Expo Chicago. Similarities are inevitable, not only those intrinsic to any Chicago art fair, but also those brought by president and director Tony Karman (vice president and director of Art Chicago from April 2006 to December 2010), as well as the familiar echoes of Navy Pier, where Art Chicago was held until 2004 and now the venue of choice for Expo. But by last year, Art Chicago was foundering, and this year went tits-up at the last minute. If Expo Chicago is going to succeed where Art Chicago ultimately failed (after, it should be added, over two decades of success), it’s going to have to have some major differences as well. Hopefully, Karman is putting his experience with Art Chicago to good use in running Expo.
Sales were “cautiously positive, if not glowing,” according to Julia Halperin’s article on Art Info (which includes some specific works sold, and prices, including at least three in the million-dollar range). Susan Snodgrass, writing for Art in America, quoted most gallerists as generally describing sales at the fair as “slow,” while describing others’ attitudes as “wait-and-see.” That’s the tone I felt at the fair as well: not ecstatic, but not the depressed gloom that had settled over Art Chicago by its final year, either. I asked a pair of friends who worked the fair as section coordinators if people were selling much at Expo. As soon as one had said, “In my section they weren’t,” the other exclaimed “In mine they were!” So it seems to have been something of a mixed bag.
Descriptions of Karman’s strategy make heavy use of the phrase “quality over quantity,” and Snodgrass agrees with the assessment, saying, “Overall quality was high.” Certainly there were plenty of well-known names on the walls of the bigger, blue-chip galleries, and gathered together the best (or at least the best-known) could have made for a respectable, if modest, exhibition at a small contemporary art museum.
This, though, is a narrow and safe definition of quality, and while it may sustain the sales necessary to carry Expo into another year, it runs the risk of trading artistic liberty to purchase a little financial safety. There was relatively little unexpected at Expo; that which was surprising was mostly in the seventeen or so spaces in the Exposure project, dedicated to newer galleries such as Chicago’s Andrew Rafacz Gallery and The Mission Projects. When these galleries sell work at a lower price point (compared to the sometimes seven figures the blue chip galleries list), and show artists with a less established sales record, it can be difficult to cover the costs of a regular art fair booth, and projects like Exposure may, if priced and juried right, attract an exciting energy to what could otherwise become an overly stodgy event.
It may be that calls for more experimental, risk-taking, emerging art are naïve, romantic notions rendered untenable by a harsh economic climate. It may be that in addition to the smaller scale, and undeniably more attractive venue, of Expo in comparison to Art Chicago’s final days (the ceilings really are higher; the place looks like a Zeppelin hanger, which is awesome), some of the more experimental, challenging projects, and more exciting (though less established) galleries, will find themselves cut from the equation by the cold, hard logic of economics.
The argument could be made that this is the reality of holding an art fair in Chicago. However, a counter-argument is being made in the form of the MDW (“Midway”) fair, which describes itself as “a showcase for independent art initiatives, spaces, galleries and artist groups, highlighting artist-run activities and experimental culture locally, nationally and internationally.” In many ways, it is everything that Expo isn’t (and Art Chicago wasn’t). There won’t be any metallic silver spaceships (Weather balloons? Inverted orange juicers?) hanging from colossal ceilings in a cyclopean amphitheatre, and glasses of wine aren’t likely to be delivered on sliver trays even at the Vernissage opening night event. Booth prices are lower, sales tighter, and the whole economics of the thing scaled down. There will be relatively few big-time European collectors, and no seven-figure sales, but instead there will be experimentation, unconventional spaces, and unexpected and surprising work.
MDW isn’t likely to rival Art Basel or Frieze in terms of dollar values moved, or the international reputation of the work seen. (Note that I said nothing here about quality; there has been some exceptional work at both of the previous MDW fairs.) MDW’s significant contribution to Chicago’s art scene is likely to remain “other than economic.” Rather, it can provide a counterpoint to the commercial fairs, showing what can be done even in tough economic times. It might even hope to lead the big boys by example, encouraging a more experimental and risk-taking attitude on the part of the big fair organizers, galleries, and collectors, to show and support the work of artists who are already performing the experiments and taking the risks.
The attitude, even among MDW’s organizers themselves, is that Chicago still needs a large, commercial art fair: Ed Marszewski, one of MDW’s organizers, posted on Facebook, “Well, you know it. Expo looks kind of fantastic. We’ve got something to be proud of.” Judging not only by the Facebook “likes” and comments, but also by the chatter in meatspace, the sentiment seemed to be shared pretty widely across a broad spectrum of Chicago’s art community, which had collectively exuded an aura of embarrassment over Art Chicago’s last few years.
Expo is almost certain to happen again next year, with some galleries already making plans to be there. (NewCity’s Robin Dluzen quotes Karman as saying, “There had better be a fair next year, or I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”) Beyond that is anyone’s guess, and will depend in large part on next year’s sales. Ultimately, though, for an art fair to truly succeed, and avoid Art Chicago’s final demise, it must remain interesting, compelling, and relevant. This means new work by living artists, both established and emerging. When a fair plays it too safe, it courts disaster. Expo’s dealers may already have learned this lesson; Dluzen observes that “it was the contemporary, primary market art, not the Modern, secondary market art, that was being moved.” Hopefully, Karman will pay close heed to this lesson, and perhaps even follow, in part, the example being set by MDW. If Expo is to be Chicago’s chance at a lasting, world-class art fair, it’s going to have to be both profitable and exciting. That’s a delicate balance, and next year is going to be a demanding test of how well Expo strikes it.
Top Feature Image: Scan of rapid prototype of my head, made by Tom Burtonwood while we were working together at the Bad at Sports booth at Expo Chicago.
Much has been written about the role of firearms in American culture, with harsh critics and vehement advocates debating the positives and negatives of this role. Will firearms one day be seen as an antiquated relic of a more violent age, like the dueling swords of 18th Century gentlemen, or the daggers and knives ubiquitous on every medieval belt from peasant to noble? Or, conversely, will the individuals who make up our society learn to stop shooting each other, so that firearms can serve a positive role as tools for recreation, competition, and defense?
Only time will tell, but in the mean time, it remains undeniable that firearms have a significant, and contentious, role in American society. (Their role internationally varies nation-by-nation.) Anything this charged is fertile ground for artists seeking high-tension subject matter, and indeed artists have worked with firearms and firearm imagery in a variety of ways.
For the now-famous performance Shoot, at F Space in Santa Ana, California, performance artist Chris Burden had a friend shoot him in the arm with a .22 rifle. Sculptor Tom LaDuke made a sort of homage in his “A Self-Inflicted Burden,” a self-portrait in which he holds a pistol in one hand and examines a gunshot wound on his other arm. Reviewed in Artweek, Art In America, and The Los Angeles Times, LaDuke’s sculpture plays with Burden through its small scale, the self-inflicted nature of the wound (Burden’s wasn’t, at least not directly), and through the title’s pun.
New York-based, Louisiana-born artist Margaret Evangeline uses firearms as an art-making tool, shooting holes in sheets of mirror-polished stainless steel, powder-coated steel, and aluminum. (She also works in painting, installation, and video.)
Tom Sachs worked with guns in a couple of ways. His 1995 sculpture Tiffany Glock (Model 19), made of cardboard, hot glue, and ink, and his Hermes Hand Grenade are both non-functional, but Sachs and his assistants also made hand-made, fully-functional firearms. Some of these are listed on his website as art objects, but others were part of a clever scheme (some might argue performance) in which he and his assistants easily made improvised “zip guns” out of common, hardware-store materials, and sold them to NYPD’s gun buyback program at up to $300 apiece.
Alfredo Martinez is another artist who worked with firearms, and also came up with a novel money-making scheme. Martinez’ scheme didn’t have anything to do with making guns; he was making fake Basquiat paintings, for which he was arrested by the FBI. But in his more honest career as a painter, his own work consisted of large-scale paintings of cross-section schematics of firearms. This actually got him into trouble more recently, when he was traveling and working in China; a hotel maid found some of his drawings, which looked like blueprints, so she reported him to the police as a terrorist.
Other artists have of course worked with firearm imagery from time to time. Andy Warhol’s screenprint “Gun” treats its subject with the same cool remove with which he treated all of his popular culture sources. The Gao Brothers’ 2009 sculpture “The Execution of Christ” features a ring of Mao clones armed with SKS rifles executing Jesus. The examples are almost countless.
A longstanding sophism holds that a work of art isn’t finished until the viewer completes it by looking at it. This is more like a Zen koan than a debatable point, along the lines of “If a tree falls in the forest…” This notwithstanding, art’s relationship with its viewer plays a particularly interesting role when the art in question involves firearms, when art viewers are typically stereotyped as liberal and therefore (the stereotype holds) anti-gun.
The message, if the film has one at all – more guns, more fun. And in a throwback, old school kind of way, yeah. But in the heart of the carnage, it’s nearly impossible not to think of when big guns and cinema violence last met in the real world of Aurora, Colorado. Forget all the post-tragedy finger pointing between the gun lobby and the media coddlers, in “The Expendables 2″ both sides of the divide set aside their differences long enough to join forces and make a tag team grab at the box office.
This odd and oddly at ease symbiosis was plainly evident at the film’s Hollywood premiere when Chuck Norris made his onscreen cameo, a real life, unabashed, gun-toting conservative, entering frame at a stroll, wading through all the dead baddies he’s just laid out to the hoots and hollers and enthusiastic applause of a theater filled with Hollywood’s so-called liberal elites.
It is this same sort of interaction between audience and subject that creates the essential tension in artworks with firearms as their subject. Some people, upon seeing an image of a firearm, feel a frightened revulsion, others feel a giddy fascination, and of course there is a spectrum in between. Regardless of its orientation, this response, whether positive, negative, or ambivalent, is what makes firearms such an enduring subject (and sometimes medium) in works of art.
[Post-script: As part of our practice, Stephanie Burke and I take artists and other art-world participants to a shooting range and teach them to shoot firearms. We call this project Shooting With Artists. If you are a Chicago-area artist or other art professional, and would like to join us on a future shooting trip, shoot us an email at either my website, or Stephanie’s.]
I recently heard about, ordered, and read I Like Your Work: Art And Etiquette. (Edited by Paper Monument, Brooklyn NY. 2009.) The book consists of a series of questions and the answers to them given by a number of art world personalities, mainly but not entirely New York based. (Chicago artist, critic, and curator Michelle Grabner is among the contributors.) After finishing it, I thought about what I would have said, had I been posed the same questions. My answers follow.
What are the rules of etiquette for the art world?
I’d like to think it’s “Don’t be a dick.” In practice, some people get away with being dicks because they have enough power, influence, money, attractiveness, or other exchange commodities that they can essentially buy the freedom to be dicks. They get away with it insofar as people tolerate their behavior in exchange for access to these exchange commodities, but their reputations as dicks still circulate. It has been my experience that only a small minority (between 1-10%) of people in the art world are dicks.
Was etiquette foregrounded in any memorable situation?
A while ago, my wife Stephanie Burke and I noticed that at every gallery opening we went to, people were drinking wine out of disposable plastic cups and then throwing them away. Few if any showed any means of recycling. It occurred to us that those Lexan backpacking wine glasses they sell at REI, where the stem unscrews and stores in the bowl, would be a fun way to bring our own glass and save on waste. So we bought a pair and started bringing ‘em with us to the galleries. Most gallerists and their staff responded somewhere between “Oh, how cool! Where did you get those?” and “Huh, that’s weird, but okay.” But we did have a problem at one gallery. The bartender actually thought they were totally awesome, and confided that she’d been bothered by the fact that they didn’t recycle either. We checked out the show and enjoyed our wine, and then went to leave. The gallery owner stopped us at the door, saying “You can’t take those outside,” indicating our empty wine glasses. “Oh, these are ours,” I said, unscrewing the stem and locking it inside the bowl to demonstrate the principle, and how these were clearly not the disposable plastic cups the gallery used. “You brought your own glass? Actually…THAT’S ILLEGAL.” I think it was just a case of misunderstood intent; here we were trying to do our part to cut back on waste and save the planet all all that shit, because at heart we’re just a couple of nature-loving hippies from California, and this gallery owner probably thought we were up to no good, trying to get larger portions of wine or something. It was an awkward interaction but I’ve tried not to hold a grudge (see below re: “Tit For Two Tats”).
What customs or mannerisms are particular to the art world?
There are a lot of specifics, like what to do during a studio visit, or how to approach a gallery, or how to deal with collectors, but the one thing I’ve noticed is the role of niceness and/or sincerity. On one level there’s this veneer of civility where everybody acts nice towards everybody else because you never know when you’ll need them professionally, even if there’s a lot of behind-the-scenes shit talking. But on another level, there’s a hierarchy. It seems sometimes as though everybody loves a collector, likes a writer, and tolerates an artist. If you’re an artist, a gallerist or dealer is as good as a collector, as is an institutional curator, because they can get you in the show. I’ve worn all these hats in one capacity or another, and it’s really interesting how people have acted differently towards me in subtle ways. I should add here that almost everyone has been very civil, polite, and friendly towards me no matter what. Also, I’m sure I act a little differently around people with different roles in the art world, but I do make an effort to be friendly and respectful to everyone, whether or not they’re in a position to advance my career.
When does breach of etiquette play a role in embarrassing or awkward encounters?
There’s the above example about the wine glasses, of course; here’s another one: A well-known artist whose work I really like, but had never met, made some very caustic remarks about my wife and I, calling us “idiotic hipsters who eat their way through the openings and don’t know anything about painting.” This was in response to The Snack Report, a weekly column I authored for several years in which I went to every art opening I could but wrote criticism only of the refreshments. Following the principle of “tit for two tats,” that is, forgiving anyone their first breach of conduct (again, see below), I engaged in a very civil dialog with this artist, and despite the rude phrasing, actually did become convinced that the joke had gotten old and the Snack Report had become more of a chore than a joy for me, and stopped doing it. The artist and I became friends, I did a studio visit, and we’ve had some other professional engagements together. It would have been easy for me to take offense at the initial remarks but by turning the other cheek I’ve allowed us to have some very positive interactions.
How should people behave? What would be a maxim for conduct?
“Don’t be a dick.” Really, that should cover it, and any more specific rules merely serve to clarify this one overlying principle. For example:
- An artist’s opening is not the time for a critique.
- An opening is not a good time to talk to the gallerist about showing your work there. The gallerist is busy talking to collectors, trying to generate sales. Or at least they should be. This is also true of art fairs.
- If your friends are writers, they are under no obligation to write about your show. If your friends are curators, they have no obligation to include your work in an exhibition. As a curator and writer, I have certainly written about and curated my friends’ work, but never felt obligated to do so. If I curate a friend’s work into an exhibition, it is because their work fits the theme well; if I write about a friend’s show, it is because I have something to say about their work. Or, in either case, because it’s a paid gig.
- Show up when you say you’re going to. If you arrange to do a studio visit, for example, and then don’t show up, or cancel at the last minute, you’re saying “My time is more important than yours.” This is related to a power dynamic. We live in a world where artists court gallerists, not the other way around. A gallerist can cancel or reschedule a studio visit without any real consequences on his or her career, whereas an artist who cancels or asks to reschedule might very well find themselves quickly forgotten. But it’s a dick move either way.
- Conversely, respect other people’s time. Nobody owes you anything. People are busy. Pushing yourself on a gallerist to do a studio visit with you is making a big demand on their time. Act accordingly.
This raises, of course, the question of what to do when someone else violates the basic principle of “don’t be a dick.” I advocate a position I learned about while reading about memetics. Basically these researchers were running a computer simulation of game theory, in which computer programs were written to play a game of Prisoner’s Dilemma, in which they could choose to either cooperate or betray one another. You can read Richard Dawkins’ The Selfish Gene and Susan Blackmore’s The Meme Machine to get the whole story in context, but the short version is, the first time they ran the game the winning program was “Tit For Tat,” which would cooperate until betrayed, but would retaliate if betrayed (that is, would not cooperate again with a player who betrayed it). So, the conclusion seemed to be that it’s best to be nice to others until they fuck you over, at which point you never trust that person again.
But, they ran a later version of the game, in which a new program was introduced, and proved even more successful than “Tit For Tat.” The new program was called “Tit For Two Tats,” and operated on this principle: It would forgive a single instance of betrayal, but not a second one. This was superior to Tit For Tat because it avoided getting into cycles of mutual betrayal with programs which were programmed to betray randomly, or merely occasionally. This seemed to map perfectly to social behavior in the art world: If someone says something rude to me, criticizes me publicly, or whatever, I’ll extend the olive branch, let ‘em know we’re still cool, and try to be their friend. In the few instances this has come up, it’s proven effective. It’s hard to punch someone who’s hugging you. (Although it occurred to me recently that it’s actually only a -4 penalty to attack while grappled.)
Has their been a shift in etiquette as the financial climate has changed?
To be honest, if it has, I haven’t noticed.
What constitutes bad manners?
The same stuff that constitutes bad manners in any context: Making people wait for you. Interrupting someone who’s in the middle of a conversation. Tying up the shitter for half a goddamned hour because you’re in there doing coke with your friends. (Everybody knows, sweetheart, you’re not fooling anyone!) Taking a couple of beers for the road out of the tub and sticking ‘em in your pockets. But…uh, nobody’s perfect.