Kenny Schachter , Reigning vice of social media (cropped Hogarth) 1 , 2025 , Robotically rendered to oil on canvas , 28 by 46.5 in. (KSC009) © Kenny Schachter. Photo by Cary Whittier. Courtesy of the artist and Jupiter Contemporary, Miami Beach, FL
When you’re a young woman in the big city service industry, clients are just dying to know what you’d rather be doing. I’d tell them I moonlit as an art writer. “Are you a critic?” they’d often ask.
“God I hope not,” I’d respond, having deemed negative reviews futile around that time, six years ago. Alas, artists are blameless, and platforming anything ultimately fans its fire—even if by now it doesn’t look like taking the high road works, either. I was bright eyed at my first fairs in 2022. Everyone else seemed equally enthused. Looking back I see it was just post-pandemic. Three years later, overstimulation abounds. Everything feels boring. Art is straining to be self-critical.
I don’t know if you heard, but money is tight. I’ve been feeling guilty about devoting my energies to art writing lately, guilty about my ferocious attachment to being the rarest breed in a glitzy industry. Remembering the Tom Robbins interview I read in that fluorescent break room, where he recounts leaving his first career as a critic because it was insufferable. Maybe it’s because the economy is bad, maybe we’re always like this, but art writers might be scrounging for hot takes lately because without voice writing for work will spit you out, if it doesn’t eat you alive first.
From a March 1984 interview with the Author.
Kenny Schachter is voice incarnate. I met him in 2022, amidst a group show he curated. I met a lot of people around then. “What happened in 2022?” asked Jupiter Gallery founder Gabriel Kilongo amongst Kenny’s current solo show. “Oh, you know,” I said, pondering. “I hit my stride.”
I went to Kenny’s house two weeks after meeting him to talk writing. I still go intermittently, to catch up. I know people have gripes with him. But I find Kenny endearing, amidst this ever more corporate art world. I admire that he answers everyone who writes to him, admire his enthusiasm for taking on power, appreciate that we both have six years sober (though some would argue I’m not.) What’s more, I can actually learn from Kenny, because he’s never come on to me. “You’re the only one,” I trilled in the voice I love using when I’m worked up, trailing him upstairs towards coffee months ago. “Wasn’t interested,” he said. “You shouldn’t be!” I laughed.
When I saw that Kenny’s show got reviewed in Cultured, I thought, “Good for him.” After ~paying~ to read it, I thought, “Oh my god.” Nonetheless, I knew that all press is good press. Kenny thwarted the impenetrable paywall protecting the review by posting it on his website. He’s sold work since. Intuiting this at the time, I let art drama roll on. Soon enough, though, I found myself creeping on the critic’s Instagram. There, he said his review ‘punched up.’ Then, Cultured launched a pop up claiming they provide “culture with a spine.” For me, calling Kenny ‘punching up’ feels like comparing Jeffrey Goldberg’s big break with Watergate—an insult to Watergate. Goldberg was too busy enjoying the limelight to give a damn about the people killed meanwhile.
I went up to visit Kenny the next week. He said he’s used to being “this whipping post for people that don’t know how I clawed my way into whatever stupid little shitty position I have in my life.”
To be fair, the review in question has great voice. I appreciate the critic’s ability to convey the physical sensation of looking at art. It really seems like he showed up knowing what he wanted to do, though. I emailed said critic asking how he ended up at the show. He’s interested in AI, knew Kenny’s column, and was in the area. Kilongo said he spent 10 minutes nosing around.
Kenny Schachter,Painting after painting (after painting) 1, 2025, Robotically rendered to oil on canvas,40 by 50 in. © Kenny Schachter. Photo by Cary Whittier. Courtesy of the artist and Jupiter Contemporary, Miami Beach, FL
I’d stopped by the gallery just to reexamine these facades. The critic’s decision to decry their “noxious auras” feels misplaced. “Art in the Age of Robotic Reproduction” isn’t about making valid paintings—it’s about seeing how the fruits of brush-bearing robots feel in the white cube. “It’s really about flitting between all these different ways and means, as an exploration of what tools are available at the hand of an artist,” Kenny said, “because artists are very opportunistic.”
The critic maintains Kenny’s application of the tech is simple, vague. Yet rather than making that case—perhaps comparing it with how Alexander Reben used this same machinery in March’s controversial Christie’s sale—he focused on landfills, drunk off writing his first bonafide pan. In AA, they say ‘you spot it you got it.’ This writing is mostly built on puns. They are clever! But it’s the kind of hit job that made me resist calling myself a critic. Over email, this critic mentioned that Kenny promoted the show in his column. “Most artists do not have this sort of platform,” he said. “Including—especially—the ones with good work.” This is his justification for calling Kenny punching up. I wonder what responsibility Kenny has, since he has the column because he has a platform of fans, really. As this critic’s count proves, followers don’t directly translate to cache.
Admittedly, I’m a bit bitter from trying to battle power myself. Most of my escapades arose from a place of damage. Certainly not difficult to find enablers in this art world. I wanted to write about the experiences I had, but editors and outlets loudly alleging to illuminate truth wrote me off as either a hot head, or maybe a whore. The constant reminder that I had agency resounded from inside and outside of me, forcing me to get clear about my qualms. Now I’ve got a 90,000 word novel, and I’ve realized punching up is tricky, because you need clear vision to identify a target.
Art wants to make a difference. We need more than beauty. We need a collective value shift, leaders who don’t fear homeless people, influence beyond our bubble. That, or we start calling a spade a spade. Someone once offered comfort by noting the ‘famous’ people I was inflicting on myself were all but anonymous outside of art. It’s true—for them, for me, and for you, even if you’re Dean Kissick or Jerry Saltz. This past weekend a woman I met in Texas visited New York. I showed her Kenny’s review. She rolled her eyes and showed me the Discord for a local art collective. I often rant that we should all be required to get out of town. Another friend interrupts me every single time, reminding me we don’t need to leave New York to tread new walks of life.
“Being an artist is about failure, humiliation, making a fucking fool of yourself. I stand at the ready to do so. I will fall, I will trip, I will make some horrible art. Maybe I’ll make something good. The jury is out, in retrospect. But, that’s part of the process.”
Kenny was undaunted last week, heading off to lecture in Virginia. “I’ll put it first and foremost,” he said, assured of his devotion.
Kenny Schachter,Painting after painting (after painting) 1, 2025, Robotically rendered to oil on canvas,40 by 50 in. © Kenny Schachter. Photo by Cary Whittier. Courtesy of the artist and Jupiter Contemporary, Miami Beach, FL
By Vittoria Benzine