The Responsibility of the Critic: On Art, Honesty, and Introspection

On a recent birthday, I found myself engrossed in an essay that challenged the responsibility of the critic, particularly in the realm of art and literature. The essayist expressed disappointment in another writer’s failure to explicitly address the ongoing genocide in Gaza in her book. This book, set in a very specific neighborhood in New England in 2014, did not directly tackle the crisis in Palestine, yet it was largely about the ways violence is and has historically been tied to colonialism. The essayist argued that while the book’s author acknowledged her own role in colonialism and the violence of white supremacy, such admissions had been made in books before and were, in her words, myopic. For the essayist, the book was both too little and too much.

The essayist admitted to wanting to write about Gaza herself and had hoped to find permission to do so from this other book, which made her critique feel less like an analysis and more like a broad application of her wishes, as if her essay was written to the work, rather than about it. Typically, I would read a piece like this and be largely unbothered by its watery stance, but this one hit me in the throat. Because the book she had written about was mine.

As I read most of this essay while standing in line for an elevator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, waiting to go up to the fifth floor, which was about to close to the public for the next half decade, I felt a mix of emotions. My husband, Matt, had gifted me this day trip to the museum, knowing that art reminded me of the good parts of humanity, that I liked to be surrounded by art and people talking about art. A museum is a community sensory experience. (It is also often a place filled with artifacts obtained by colonial violence.) We pressed into the elevator with at least twenty other people. At the top, the doors opened into a rush of hot, dry air. I took some pictures of the skyline, barely looking at my screen, too distracted by the essay.

Matt and I circled the perimeter of the roof in silence, and then went back inside. We took the stairs down, exiting at the hall of Rodins, half-heartedly admiring the sculptures. The essay had left me contemplating the complexities of criticism, the responsibility of the critic, and the role of art in addressing broader societal issues.

The essayist’s critique made me reflect on my own writing and the choices I had made. Was I avoiding important topics, or was I simply choosing to focus on a specific lens through which to view the world? The essayist’s desire to write about Gaza and her frustration with the book’s lack of direct engagement with the crisis resonated with me. As an artist, I grapple with the question of how much responsibility I have to address global issues in my work.

The museum, with its vast collection of artifacts, many of which were obtained through colonial means, served as a stark reminder of the interconnectedness of art and history. The essayist’s critique, while personal, raised questions about the role of art in confronting and addressing systemic violence and injustice.

As I left the museum, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The essay had challenged me to be more intentional in my work, to consider the broader implications of my art and the impact it might have on others. It also made me question the nature of criticism itself—how critics can both inspire and provoke, and the responsibility that comes with wielding that power.

In the end, the essayist’s critique, while painful, served as a catalyst for introspection and growth. It reminded me that art has the power to provoke thought, to challenge the status quo, and to hold us accountable for the world we live in. As I walked away from the museum, I carried with me the lessons of the essay and the responsibility that comes with being an artist in a world that is both beautiful and fraught with violence.