Essay

If a truck jumped the curb at Dallas City Hall and rammed into the Henry Moore sculpture, should your Aunt Linda then opportunistically petition to have it destroyed rather than restored, just because it doesn’t meet her definition of art? Of course not.

I’ve certainly noticed a “go with the flow” attitude for Chinati Weekend in not fighting all the artists’ love and regard for the local landscape. I, too, went with the flow.

The casual pace reminds me more of Los Angeles than New York, though we could just call it Marfa Time.

It’s nice timing that the MFAH’s “Truffaut: On Childhood” series has arrived on the heels of Richard Linklater’s recent coming-of-age film, Boyhood.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy performed at the Crowley Theater as Kareem James Abu-Zeid read at Marfa Book Company. Walter Benjamin looked on.

For those who don't know, art fairs are the way of the art world these days. They are as inevitable as kissing the anuses of those more powerful than you, and just as enjoyable.

Many of the greatest avant-garde breakthroughs of the twentieth century were being incubated in the kindergarten classrooms of the nineteenth.

That’s the era we live in: No blank walls no matter how desperate or cheap we may be. Are blank walls that bad?

America is over, and the last stand of our compromised, imperial American identity is being staged here at the bottom of the nation.

On the surface it seems elementary, but I can’t think of a more sophisticated sensibility than true comic absurdity.

Why would anyone who is truly creative stay in this state if they could live elsewhere?

Not a single name on Alvarez's list of the "Top Ten Painters in Houston" in this week's Houston Press matched a single name on mine, anywhere.

To be broke and tired for the sake of living in a rathole in Sunset Park isn’t that interesting, but living among other young people who are working their butts off to make something worthwhile is.

Back in 1993, in what to my own mind may count as the single most inspired feat of performance art of all time, Pinoncelli had urinated into the sculpture as it lay on display in Nîmes, France.

Emilee Cooney, auction assistant at the Houston Center for Photography, talks about the behind-the-scenes choices and preparations that go into HCP's annual fundraiser.

So long Pollock! See you later Franz Kline! Art-sports spectacles are proliferating like NFL playoff slots!

Chinelo Ikejimba studied dance and interns at Houston's Contemporary Arts Museum.

The mystery is how Magritte became so ordinary.

When Theo Wujcik, the great technical printmaker and beloved personality, laid his head on his hospital pillow, none of it mattered: not Rosenquist’s or Ruscha’s fame, or Theo’s lack thereof, the Dallas art scene, the fainting guy in the audience, or me.