I need writing tutor
Hello,I would be happy to help you. Do you need assistance with a particular assignment?
Yes, I can you help me. MY assignment is that I need to write one to two pages reading response (critic ) on essay that below: Colleagues of mine will tell you that people despise critics because they fear our power. But Iknow better. People despise critics because people despise weakness, and criticism is the weakestthing you can do in writing. It is the written equivalent of air guitar—flurries of silent,sympathetic gestures with nothing at their heart but the memory of the music. It produces noknowledge, states no facts, and never stands alone. It neither saves the things we love (as wewould wish them saved) nor ruins the things we hate. Edinburgh Review could not destroy JohnKeats, nor Diderot Boucher, nor Ruskin Whistler; and I like that about it. It’s a loser’s game, andeverybody knows it. Even ordinary citizens, when they discover you’re a critic, respond as theywould to a mortuary cosmetician—vaguely repelled by what you do yet infinitely curious as tohow you came to be doing it. So, when asked, I always confess that I am an art critic todaybecause, as a very young person, I set out to become a writer—and did so with a profoundlydefective idea of what writing does and what it entails.Specifically, I embarked upon a career in writing blithely undismayed by the fact that, as a writer,I was primarily interested in that which writing obliterates: in the living atmosphere of all that isshown, seen, touched, felt, smelled, heard, spoken, or sung. I knew this was a peculiar obsession,of course, but I thought writers were supposed to be peculiar. I thought it was just a “problem,”that it could be solved, and that, once solved, the enigmatic whoosh of ordinary experience wouldbecome my “great subject”—that I could then proceed to celebrate the ravishing complexity andsheer intellectual pleasure of simply being alive in the present moment forever after. I thought.So I began by writing poems, quickly shifted to fiction, abandoned that for pharmaceuticallyassisted pastiche, and abandoned that for gonzo reportage—always trying to get out of the book,trying to get closer to the moment, and always floating farther from it, slamming myself upagainst the fact that writing, even the best writing, invariably suppresses and displaces the greaterand more intimate part of any experience that it seeks to express. Ultimately, I would be forced toadmit that all the volumes of Proust were nothing, quantitatively, compared to the twenty-minuteexperience of eating breakfast on a spring morning at a Denny’s in Mobile—and that the moreauthoritatively and extensively I sought to encode such an experience, the more profoundly it wasobliterated from the immediacy of memory and transported into the imaginary realm ofremembrance, invested with identity, shorn of utility, and polished up as an object of delectation.I would begin, every time, trying to approximate some fragment of that enigmatic whoosh andend up, every time, inevitably, writing an edited, imaginary version of myself. Which is simply tosay that my “great subject” was not a subject for writing at all. It was a cure for writing. Thequotidian experience I was seeking to evoke in writing, as it turned out, was nothing other than asolvent for the identity I was imposing upon it by writing. That gauzy filigree of decenteredawareness I was seeking to know in writing was the body’s last defense against such suchcodified self-knowledge. Like sex, which marks its final intensification, and art, which suppliesits visceral hard copy, that whoosh was the quintessence of everything that is not writing.So the choice (as it presented itself to me in the intellectual jargon of the late nineteen sixties, waseither to stop writing or divest my writing, somehow, of its presumed autonomy, of its implicitaspiration to timeless authority. The option of not writing never seriously presented itself. It wasmy living and a good kind of life. Also, by this time I understood that the burden of living as acitizen in a massive civil society included the responsibility of wrangling for one’s pleasures, lestthey dissolve into the smooth surface of rational administration. And writing could do that: Itcould wrangle, if somehow, as a writer, one could shed the ludicrous, God-like mantle of auteurwhile retaining one’s sotto voce as a private citizen.By this route, then, I fell upon the opinion of writing with as much strength as I could muster in aweak genre—a contingent discourse, if you will—by narrating my experience of objects that werelikely to survive being written about, and that, by surviving, might redeem or repudiate what I hadwritten by replenishing all those challenge to knowledge and self-knowledge that are shorn awayin the historical act of composition. I would write about works of art, then, about pieces ofarchitecture and recorded music—objects that would continue to maintain themselves in theliving present subsequent to my transporting them out of it.In this way, I might stop destroying that which I wished to celebrate and cease celebrating myselfin ways I had no wish to—for even though my writing about art might momentarily intervenebetween some object and its beholders, the words would wash away, and the writing, if it waswritten successfully into its historical instant, could never actually replace the work or banish itinto the realm of knowledge. If the work survived, the writing would simply bob after it, like adinghy in the wake of a yacht. If the work sank from sight? Well, too bad. The writing coulddisappear after it into the bubbles.Art criticism, then, presented itself as a compromise between my “great subject” and theimpossibility of writing about it; and, even though times have changed, even though I set out tobecome a writer in a weak genre—a critic in an age of art—and have survived to labor as a criticin an arid age of criticism, I still believe that the primary virtue and usefulness of criticism residesprecisely in its limitations, in the fact that the critic’s fragile linguistic tryst with the visible objectis always momentary, ephemeral, and local to its context. The experience blooms up in the valleyof its saying, to borrow W. H. Auden’s phrase, but it does not survive that moment.I see the object. I translate that seeing into vision. I encode that vision into language, and appendwhatever speculations and special pleadings I deem appropriate to the occasion. At this point,whatever I have written departs. It enters the historical past, perpetually absent from the present,and only represented there in type, while the visible artifact remains in the presentmoment—regardless of its antiquity, perpetually re-created by the novelty of its experientialcontext. As a consequence, what I write and what I have written about diverge from the momentof their confluence and never meet again.The writing gets older with each passing moment while the artifact gets newer. There are worksof art on the wall of my apartment, for instance, that I have written about in the past. They remainas fresh and devious as the first day I set my eyes upon them, invariably evoking the sensememory of that first bright encounter—while the words I wrote on that occasion, informed by thatbrightness, have yellowed into antiquity and seem to me now as weathered and grotesque asDorian’s portrait tucked away in the attic. Thus, in the same sense that there is only historicalwriting, there is no historical art beyond those imaginary works that critics describe in writing.For even though a visible artifact must necessarily predate the language that describes it, theartifact itself, as we stand before it, is always newer and more extensive than any word everwritten about it—newer and more extensive, even, than the visual codes incorporated into it,because whether we like it or not, we always confront works of art as part of that selfless,otherless, unwritable instant of ordinary experience.In the process of writing about works of art, then, we make the same sort of Draconian decisionsthat we do when writing about nonart experience. We write about what can be written about. Wedecipher that which lends itself to cipher and discard the rest as surplus. Unlike the lost surplus ofnonart experience, however, the surplus we ignore in works of art survives, remains available tobe invested with meaning by subsequent viewers under different circumstances. But a problemremains, which is that the aspects of visible artifacts that are most effectively translated intowriting usually have little or nothing to do with the occasion for writing about them, which, in mycase, invariably resides in the pleasurable, confusing, or horrific nature of the experienceitself—an experience in which there is neither surplus nor cipher. “In the landscape of spring,”the koan reminds us, “the branches are neither long nor short.” They are simply present,precedent to the standards and expectations we impose upon them as we name our attributes,pronouncing them long or short, strong or weak, young or old.In the act of writing about art, then, you press language to the point of fracture and try to do whatwriting cannot do: account for the experience. Otherwise, you elide the essential mystery, whichis the reason for writing anything at all. The easy alternative is just to circumnavigate theoccasion of seeing something—to “professionalize” art criticism into a branch of academic arthistory—to presume that works of art are already utterances in art-language that need only to betranslate into a better language to achieve perfect transparency. In this way, the practice ofcriticism is transformed into a kind of Protestant civil service dedicated to translating artlanguageinto a word-language that neutralizes its power in the interest of public order. Thewriter’s pathological need to control and reconstitute the fluid universe of not-writing isfortuitously disguised by this strategem—since in a truly “professional” discourse, no moreintimate engagement with the “needy” object is required than that of a doctor with a patient, andno more stress need be placed upon the language than that required by the clinical assignment ofnames to symptoms.Thus, the hypocrisy of the “disengaged critic” writing about art is closely analogous to that of the“disengaged psychoanalyst” writing about sex: Any acknowledgement of the ordinary pleasuresattendant upon the event itself is rigorously suppressed (as professional impropriety) and, alongwith it, any recognition of the multitudinous challenges to self-knowledge that are attendant uponthose pleasures. Professionals will tell you in conversation (not in writing) that these subversivepleasures are simply “understood” and “pleasure denied” having become increasingly fine as thetherapeutic option of telling us things “for our own good” falls ever more readily to hand.The justification for this pretense to disengagement derives from our Victorian habit ofmarginalizing the experience of art, of treating it as if it were somehow “special”—and, lately, asif it were somehow curable. This is a preposterous assumption to make in a culture that isirrevocably saturated with pictures and music, in which every elevator serves as a combinationpicture gallery and concert hall. The question of whether we can enjoy, or even decipher, theworld we see without the experience of music, seems to me pretty much a no-brainer. In fact, Icannot imagine a reason for categorizing any part of our involuntary, ordinary experience as“unaesthetic” or for imagining that this quotidian aesthetic experience occludes any “real” or“natural” relationship between ourselves and the world that surrounds us. All we do by ignoringthe live effects of art is suppress the fact that these experiences, in one way or another, inform ourevery waking hour.In my own case, I can still remember gazing at the lovely, lifting curve of a page upon whichOscar Wilde’s argument that “life imitates art” was inscribed and knowing that this was the first“big truth” I had come across in writing. I can remember, as well, standing on the corner of 52ndStreet and Third Avenue on a spring afternoon, six feet from a large citizen gouging the pavementwith a jackhammer, and thinking about the Ramones, amazed at the preconscious acuity withwhich I had translated the pneumatic slap of the hammer into eighth-notes and wondering whatpart, if any, of the pleasures and dangers of the ordinary world might rightly be considered“natural.” So it seems to me that, living as we do in the midst of so much ordered light and noise,we must unavoidably internalize certain expectations about their optimal patterning’s—and thatthese expectations must be perpetually and involuntarily satisfied, frustrated, and subtly alteredevery day, all day long, in the midst of things, regardless of what those patterns of light and noisemight otherwise signify. This, in the light of what I perceive to be the almost total absence of“unaesthetic” experience in ordinary life, the necessity of art criticism addressing our ordinaryexperience of art, from whence these expectations flow, seems all the more urgent.The joys and perils of our internalized formal expectations are not going to go away, no matterhow we excoriate them as their source. As a consequence, to paraphrase XXXXX XXXXX, thelanguage of pleasure and the language of justice are inextricably intertwined. I like to think thatthis is what Thomas Jefferson had in mind when he reconstituted that French trinity of liberté,égalité, fraternité as “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” privileging our quest forquotidian equanimity and implicitly freeing us from the bonds of tribal brotherhood so we mightperform the more cosmopolitan tasks of equal citizenship. Certainly, this intertwining of pleasureand justice is what Emerson had in mind when he instead that all constructions of public virtuemust be tested on the anvil of private happiness.In any case, the questions of who decides what we can or cannot enjoy, and how we may enjoy it,joins art criticism ineluctably to the realm of politics, where the battle between our professedstandards, our cultural expectations, and our ordinary private desires is fought—and must befought because, even thought there is no persuasive evidence that human character has changed inthe last millennium, there is ample evidence that the way we see, and the things at which we look,have changed considerably—and that these alterations in what we see and how we look at thingshave had some behavioral consequences that can only be considered redemptive. Moreover, asintriguing as it is to speculate on the intentions that have created these landscape-changingimages, evidence further suggests that these changes derive less from the authority of artists andinstitutions than from the novel and often inappropriate uses to which existing images have beenput—from new accommodations of pleasure and justice arising from the willful contingencies ofperception and interpretation at work upon ordered visual information.In “The Anxiety of Influence,” Harold Bloom argues that artistic practice changes becauseyounger artists must willfully misinterpret the work of their masters. I would suggest that wemust do so—that we are always looking for what we want. If we find it in an image, it’s there, atleast for the purposes of argument. Caravaggio was hired to celebrate and lend credibility to theproblematic lives of the saints. To do this, he fell upon the novel device of portraying ordinarypeople, naturalistically, as characters in his imaginary narratives. The historic consequence ofCaravaggio’s device, however, had nothing to do with the lives of the saints and everything to dowith the way we privilege and attend to the visage of ordinary humanity. Caravaggio and hismasters would have wished it otherwise, but they were outvoted. That’s that.Police mentalities will always strive to impose correct readings, to align intentions withoutcomes, and couple imaginary causes with putative effects, but we always have a choice. In apoorly regulated, cosmopolitan society like our own, the discourse surrounding cultural objects isat once freely contingent and counter-entropic. It neither hardens into dogma nor decays intochaos as it disperses. It creates new images and makes new images out of old ones, with newconstituencies around them. It is a discourse of experiential consequences, not disembodiedcauses. Thus, the sheer magnitude of social experience and organizational energy generated in thewake of a single painting by Velazquez so far outweighs and overrides the effort and intentionthat went into its creation as to make nature pale and angels weep. As a critic, I generate tinybursts of this new organizational energy in hopes of generating more. ‘Tis a small thing, but mineown.
Here is the website for this essay to make easier to read. http://dcrit.sva.edu/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/Air-Guitar.pdf
Okay, have you started on the assignment at all?
I did but, I am confused with language that is used in this essay. Can you write the critic summary one page and So, I can have a good start. Thanks
Yes, I can get started on this. It would help if you could upload what you have written already. Also, when is this due?
I have not wrote yet any think but, I read this essay lots of time.It's due in today. I have to finish it in one hour. because I forgot that its due today.
Hi, I won't be able to finish it in one hour. I'll opt out so someone else can assist you.
Ok Please ask them to focus on it quick because I have no time left.thanks
Excuse me, do you still need help with this assignment? What is the absolute last day you can turn in the assignment? Is there any additional information I need to complete the assignment?