Critiques: What's the point?
Are critiques a valuable activity to engage in, or do the just create noise? I believe they can be used to solidify our beliefs and identities.
In my third-ever post published on this site I critiqued the streetwear brand Supreme. Since then, I've been thinking a lot about what value, if any, that piece and critiques in general provide.
There were three main themes of the my thoughts toward critiques: first, do they do anything but make more noise? Second, as I considered writing other critiques, I often asked myself, 'who am I to say that?' Third, and last, I wondered if critiques were a worthy use of my — or anyone's, for that matter — time. Why exert emotional and cognitive energy on things, people, and ideas we dislike and disagree with? Is that a wise use of my time?
As per usual, I haven't really arrived at any conclusions with a sense of finality; I've mostly just ended up with more questions. But hopefully you'll find by reading, as I did by writing, that the nature of some of the questions contain answers to others.
Let's get to it.
Noise machine
Something that certainly wasn't invented by the likes of Twitter, but has become less subtle as a result, is how recycled our opinions are. It's said if you have all the same opinions as your friends, they're not really your opinions. Of course, we see regurgitated, not-so-hot takes in every domain, but here we'll discuss how it relates to books.
Two perfect examples are David Foster Wallace and Ayn Rand. Both are largely considered to be capital-g Greats, but there's also a lot of hatred, smirking, and ironic, underhanded insults once you get into conversations about either.
Both DFW and Rand are famous for behemoth, 1,000+ page texts. DFW's "Infinite Jest" finishes after 1,079 pages of copy and footnotes, and Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" comes in at a thunderous 1,168 pages. They also share legacies as books that every young, ardent white man owns but has never read.
Similarly, many people who have strong opinions on either author haven't read their works. One critic might describe DFW as snobby and pretentious, or Rand as cruel and heartless, and before you know it, everyone who's read the critic's writing has a second-hand opinion of the work, while having never directly experienced it.
I’ll be the first to admit my guilt in this. I once walked into a friend's apartment and, upon seeing his biblically-proportioned copy of "Infinite Jest" sitting on the coffee table, had the internal knee-jerk reaction of a self-righteous sneer. Obviously, this guy is just trying to signal his boundless intellect, which I could never understand, let alone relate to, right?
Wrong. Here's the thing: at the time this anecdote occurred, I'd never even read a single thing by DFW. I was just regurgitating opinions I'd picked up somewhere or other. I even went so far as to make this cartoon about the readers of "Infinite Jest."
The point is each time we read critiques and then feel entitled to make sweeping proclamations about anything, be it DFW or Rand, trends within design, or complex economic systems, we lose a lot of the subtleties that make those things so special.
It's easy to rationalize these critiques when we're more focused on the character of the artist than the character of their work — two things I believe are distinctly different. It turns out DFW was an abusive guy, and the end of Rand's life contradicts much of her philosophy. But does any of that lessen how heart-shattering and inspiring their writing is?
When critiques and borrowed opinions begin to saturate the majority's thoughts toward any given topic, the obvious side effect is that nobody really knows what they're talking about. Therefore, they're incentivized to double down on their positions and relentlessly argue until the other side gives up. This paints an ironic picture: when views are founded solely on critiques or litchat, it's easy to fall into the same unquestioning hall of mirrors that I used to describe the people who praise Supreme. Each person's opinions endlessly reflect their friends', and we become what we hate.
Skin in the game
Next, as we consider the value of critiques, we're faced with what seems the inevitable question: whether or not the person doing the critique has any proverbial 'skin in the game.'
For example, should an architect value the opinions of a person who's not a trained architect? This seems like arbitrarily narrow framing, though; plus you run up against paradox right away. Most people live in buildings. Similarly, most people have been in buildings better and worse than the ones they inhabit and could, if asked, identify some of the elements that made those buildings better or worse. It turns out most people actually do have a vested interest in buildings and architecture, even if it’s indirect and passive.
Still, whether or not a person has experience doing something seems to at least give some validity to their opinion. It's all too easy for people to critique things they've never done — just listen to your uncle whine about everything X football team is doing wrong if you need evidence of this. But that doesn't make it a meaningful or even useful critique.
The best example comes in the domain of modern art. Life is said to include such certainties as death and taxes, but could just as well include sniveling philistines at art museums saying, 'that? I could have done that.' This is invariably met with the response, 'yeah, but you didn't,' which has the devastating effect of a child innocently stating an objective, albeit unpleasant fact. As the ancients said, the arts belong to the practical and not the speculative intelligence, and there’s no surrogate for being on the job.
But the question remains: is skin in the game necessary? Is it even an advantage? To again return to Rand, should we take her opinions on collectivism more seriously because her early life was devastated by it, or should we take them less seriously because she's unable to objectively view its merits?
Mental baggage
He who angers you conquers you.
- Elizabeth Kenny
Last, there's the issue of the mental baggage critiques come with. The simple route, which seems like the kind of bromide passed mindlessly through so-called mental health Instagram pages, would be to disengage from the things that aren't positive.
This is a convenient rationalization against critiques. In fact, it's the one that was most clearly present in my mind after I wrote the original Schmuckpreme piece four months ago: why am I wasting mental energy on something I don't care for?
But however attractive this mindset is, it's superficial. It's a non-answer, parrying the issue altogether.
Verily, criticism (and praise) are crucial to finding out what we actually like or dislike. Sitting down to write a critique of a brand, a style of art, or an author is valuable for the very reasons the United States Constitution protects speech: by engaging critically and earnestly with ideas we disagree with, we either further solidify our convictions, or realize how misguided they are. For example, my piece about Supreme overall reaffirmed my disgust with the culture the brand perpetuates, but it also drove home in spades the weapons-grade marketing achievements they've accomplished.
Properly engaging in a critique — seriously and with an open mind — is like writing: it's a process by which you realize you have no fucking idea what you're talking about.
Until you do.
TL;DR
Criticism is worthy of your time, but only as a part of a conversation. I've employed that specific noun — conversation — because it's a crucial distinction. Critiques cease to be useful when they descend into debate, as debates are zero-sum games. In a debate, the purpose is to win. It doesn't matter whether you're actually right; it just matters that you win.
Conversely, conversation seeks to build something, to lead to some agreement, or at least furthered understanding of each side's perspective.
Finally, critiques should be earnest and in good faith. A critique's purpose shouldn't be to dunk on something or someone, but to enlighten ourselves and engage with others' intellects. Critiques illustrate not only what we care about, but more importantly, why we care.