Nice Work If You Can Get It: Reflections on Writing My First Art Review

My journey into art writing almost didn’t happen. As a freelance writer for a now-defunct Toronto weekly, my work primarily revolved around community news and the occasional book review. My beat was familiar—community events, neighbourhood profiles, author interviews. The visual arts felt distant, a realm reserved for those with a formal art history training and specialised vocabulary that I lacked. The thought of writing about art seemed daunting, something beyond my reach—and nevertheless appealing. With uncanny timing, an opportunity arose that would open a new avenue for me: a chance to review the Art Gallery of Ontario’s 2021 Fragments of Epic Memory exhibition, curated by Julie Crooks.

This exhibition showcased artists exploring themes of the Caribbean and its diaspora—a subject close to my heart. As a child of the Caribbean diaspora, I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation about pitching a review. Here was a chance to engage with art that spoke to my heritage, yet I was acutely aware of my lack of experience in this form of criticism.

As a novice, I grappled with self-doubt. Was I qualified to write about art? Did I possess the language necessary to articulate my perspective engagingly and intelligibly? These questions loomed large as I approached my first review. To address them, I reflected on my relationship with art, searching for a foundation upon which to build my approach. Art had always been a part of my life, though in subtle ways I hadn’t fully recognised. Several friends were working artists, their creative processes a backdrop to our conversations. My son, now living in Germany, is a painter; his canvases and ideas about how paintings work were a constant bridge between our two worlds. Growing up, art manifested mostly in the music that filled our home—calypso, R&B, hip hop rhythms. It was also present in the literature I studied in university, with the words of Derek Walcott, Jamaica Kincaid, and George Lamming forming vivid narratives of island life and postcolonial identity.

The visual arts, however, still seemed to belong to an otherworldly history. Art museums and galleries felt like spaces designed for others, filled with artworks that, while beautiful, didn’t speak to my experience. In hindsight, I realise I had encountered visual art in many forms throughout my life—in the vibrant costumes of carnival, the crafts and fabrics sold in Barbados during my childhood, each piece telling a story of skill and tradition. But I lacked the awareness to recognise these items as art, narrowly defining “art” by Western ideas. My understanding of art was boxed in by preconceived notions of what art should be and who it was for. There was also the hard and basic challenge of finding spaces where I could get a start writing about art. I had managed to pull some freelance opportunities together to write about other subjects, but the acute precarity of art writing and art-focused publications made a viable path to art criticism—and the space to explore my budding interest in it—seem completely out of reach.

John Berger writes that “We can only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice.”¹ This quote resonated deeply with me as I embarked on an emotional, intellectual process that has since shaped the way I look at and write about art. This process wasn’t just about looking at artworks but about engaging with them on a deeply personal level. As I examined the paintings, photographs, installations, videos, and sculptures within the exhibition, I searched for stories and memories of the Caribbean, particularly Barbados, where I spent much of my formative years. This is how I could make sense of the works, how I could bring them close enough to write about what they revealed.

I walked the entire exhibition, moving freely toward works that intrigued me. I had no formula, no “how-to” guide shaping how I encountered the works. Instead, I allowed my instincts and emotions to guide me, noting briefly which pieces drew me in and why. A good curator, I’ve since learned, plans how a visitor will encounter an exhibition. They create a narrative flow, a journey through the space that enhances the viewer’s understanding and experience. As a curious would-be art writer, I noticed this design while forming my own conclusions on the show’s construction, creating a personal dialogue with the curatorial choices.

Fragments of Epic Memory offered the perfect introduction to art writing because it was a multi-sensory exhibition, utilising sound, video, sculpture, photography, and paintings. This diversity of media mirrored the complexity and richness of Caribbean culture I knew, offering multiple entry points for engagement. My second pass through the exhibition (this time slowly and with more deliberation) was to select artworks that invited me to explore deeper ideas, works that spoke to me and offered a way into deeper understanding.

In writing my first review, I learned it’s okay to linger on works that take your breath away, just as it’s fine to skim those that don’t immediately connect. This realisation was liberating—I didn’t need to pretend equal interest in every piece but could instead focus on those that sparked something within me. I learned, too, that not every work of art lends itself to easy interpretation. Some works I simply wouldn’t “get,” while others would open up all kinds of lines of inquiry. This complexity, I came to understand, is part of art’s beauty—its ability to challenge, confound, and reveal itself over time.

Reflecting on the experience of writing that first review, a few works come to mind. British painter Frank Bowling’s abstract painting Middle Passage (1970), for instance, evoked the distinct Caribbean light I know so well—its hues yellow and orange, shifting throughout the day. Viewing his large canvas, situated near the exhibition’s entrance, I thought immediately of my ancestors who toiled under that same sun, having been forcibly brought to the Caribbean through the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Bowling’s painting represented a fiery cauldron, emblazoning a history of pain and survival. The abstract forms danced and shimmered, like heat rising from sun-baked earth, connecting me to a landscape I knew intimately yet saw anew through the artist’s eyes.

Jeannette Ehlers’s black-and-white video Black Bullets (2012) resonated with my experience of reading about the Caribbean, particularly CLR James’s classic history on the Haitian Revolution, The Black Jacobins. In Ehlers’s work, children walk along Haiti’s famous Citadelle Laferrière, their bodies moving in single file and transforming into bullets. It’s a powerful reminder that freedom must be fought for and defended, a theme that echoes through Caribbean history. The stark contrast of the black-and-white imagery emphasised the gravity of the artist’s message, while the transformation of children into bullets spoke to the generational nature of struggle and resistance.

Paul Anthony Smith’s ink-jet print Midnight Blue (2020), with its layered “picotage” technique obscuring images of women dancing, took me back to the collective energy of carnival’s exuberance. The partially obscured figures seemed to pulsate with life, capturing the blur of movement and the sense of losing oneself in the crowd. Smith’s technique, which involves picking the surface of the photograph to create a textured, semi-abstract image, mirrored the way memory works—some details sharp and clear, others fading into a haze of sensation and emotion.

Without formal training in art, I’ve had to develop my own language to describe these works. This language is shaped by personal experience, which some might view as a limitation. However, many writers, artists, and critics I’ve spoken with see it as a strength. They argue that art should be accessible, that it should speak to people from all walks of life. My approach, rooted in my life and cultural background, offers a perspective unobtainable through traditional art historical approaches.

My first review was picked up by an international art magazine, whose editor patiently and generously guided me through the nuances of art criticism. Through subsequent drafts, she’d provide comments that helped me learn as I went along. “You’ve told me about the elements of the work, but what form does it take?” she’d ask, pushing me to delve deeper into the technical and material aspects of the artworks. This gentle prodding helped me realise that while personal response is valuable, it needs to be balanced with a consideration of the artist’s techniques, choices, and the broader context of their work.

This experience taught me the importance of research. While my initial reactions were based on emotion and personal connection, I learned to supplement these with background information on the artists, their previous works, and the cultural and historical contexts they were engaging with. This additional knowledge enriched my writing, allowing me to draw connections and offer insights that went beyond mere description.

For me, art writing is a labour of love. In an era of dwindling print publications and the visual dominance of platforms like Instagram, writing about art can seem like a luxury. The space for long-form art criticism is shrinking, with many publications favouring shorter, more digestible pieces. Yet, I believe there’s still immense value in thoughtful, in-depth engagement with art. It offers me a way to slow down, to really look and think about what I’m seeing in a world that often prioritises quick consumption and instant reactions.

I didn’t set out to be an art writer; I found my path through experience, curiosity, and connection rather than formal training. This journey has taught me that there are many ways to engage with art and write about it. While academic knowledge is valuable, so too is the perspective of someone who comes to art from a different background, bringing fresh eyes and unique experiences to bear on what they see.

Fragments of Epic Memory was more than just my first art review—it was a revelation. It showed me that art could be written about from a place of deep personal resonance and feeling. This exhibition, with its subject matter so intensely meaningful to me, launched my journey into art writing and demonstrated the power of connecting personal experience with artistic expression. The works I encountered were more than objects on display; they were gateways into my own past, my cultural heritage, and the collective memory of a people scattered across the globe yet bound by shared history and experience.

Since that first review, I’ve continued to write about art, always striving to balance personal response with informed critique. I’ve learned to trust my instincts while also pushing myself to engage more deeply with the technical and conceptual aspects of the works I encounter. Each exhibition I review, each artist I interview, adds to my understanding and appreciation of the art world. The more I write, the more I discover about the layers of meaning embedded within art, and the more I understand how those layers resonate with my own identity.

Writing about art has become a way for me to explore my own identity and cultural heritage, to engage with complex ideas about representation, history, and creativity. It’s a continual process of learning and growth, one that challenges me to look more closely, think more deeply, and articulate more clearly. Art has become a mirror, reflecting not just the world around me, but also my internal landscape—my memories, emotions, and thoughts.

As I reflect on this journey, I’m grateful for the unexpected turn that led me into art writing. It has enriched my life, broadened my perspectives, and connected me more deeply to my cultural roots. Through writing about art, I’ve found a new way to tell stories—not just about the artworks themselves, but about the human experiences they reflect and the connections they forge between artists, viewers, and the wider world.

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Neil Price is a writer, educator, and editor. His writing has appeared in NOW Magazine, The Globe and Mail, Momus, Hazlitt, Ocula, and Frieze, among other publications.  

Fragments of Epic Memory is organised by the Art Gallery of Ontario and is curated by Julie Crooks, Curator, Arts of Global Africa and the Diaspora at the Art Gallery of Ontario. The Columbus Museum of Art’s presentation runs from September 19, 2024, to January 26, 2025, and is organised by Daniel Marcus, Curator of Collections and Exhibitions.

1. John Berger, Ways of Seeing (Pelican, 1972), chapter 1, https://www.ways-of-seeing.com/ch1.

This article is published in issue 41.2 of BlackFlash magazine. Get this issue