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the art myths developed by Judd, that whole paragraphs read like the most banal resentments of decade-old arguments, uttered with a solemnity unbecoming to the content:

Traditional composition means a balancing of major and minor parts, one against the other, into a hierarchical structure. Parts are not equal and they are not clear. The arrangement reflects a larger idea of order and an acceptance of a scheme which is exterior to the work of art. It is, like illusionistic space, a reference to something else, which dilutes the immediate experience of art. Furthermore, the acceptance of such a scheme means the work is not personal, it does not represent the ideas of one individual. Finally, older composition is simply past, and foreign in that respect——one more lack of immediacy. (Catalogue, pp 11-12)

How long has it been since anyone seriously believed this? Besides being an unintentional parody of everything Judd has had to say on the subject, I cannot think of any art that I admire which even remotely qualifies for what Smith is describing as "old" and "traditional." Does she really believe that reference dilutes experience? And does she really think that true individuality was unavailable to artists until Judd cleared the way? Judd's own work has become increasingly illusionistic, ever more composed, with rhomboidal shapes and odd perspectives, with even more tricky Flavin-like color reflectivities——and this should establish once and for all the idealistic, unattainable, cul-de-sac nature of the illogical view presented above.

Simply, what her essay is about is Judd's unique, individual achievement as separate from the rest of the world——roping him off from the art past before Pollock, from his lesser contemporaries, and especially from the outside world. And the type of discussion we read is a reflection of how the work wants to be read. What is needed is a view other than the insider's view of the world Judd inhabits.

What can we remember of the '60s? Judd's Complete Writings is a good place to start.

Noland is obviously one of the best painters anywhere. (pg. 93)
It's obvious that Noland is one of the best painters. (pg. 166)
By now Kenneth Noland's salience isn't debatable; he's one of the best painters. (pg. 172)
I think Noland is the only first-rate artist involved (pg. 197)

The above quotations sound like Darby Bannard, but they're Don Judd. It's not just the evaluation of Noland, but the tone of voice, the particular choice of words, which makes for an unmistakable concordance.

Art, dance, music, and literature have to be considered as autonomous activities and not as decoration upon political and social purposes. (pg. 222)[^]1

This is not a defense by Greenberg for the separation of art and politics or art and literature or art from other social activities. It is Judd in battle with those who might call his work "imperialist."

The main job of the staff of a museum is to make judgments about the quality of the various artists' work and to defend those judgments. The true proportion of quality...has to be maintained. (pg. 223)

Again, this could be Michael Fried on why we must keep all that theatrical Minimal art out of the museums. The last sentence has Judd joining the Greenbergers (his phrase) in his defense of the rigid esthetic standards museums should uphold, standards which admit Judd's own work and stamp it "quality." The similarities of attitude are striking, in that they agree as to what constitutes "great art." Their individual and local antagonisms should not be allowed to obscure their larger mutual sympathies.

In this respect, Judd has been more than influenced by formalist/modernist criticism - he has thoroughly internalized it. Both kinds of criticism reduce painting or sculpture to one quality which must be maintained above all: Greenberg insists on flatness, Judd insists on specificity. (Both, for instance, settle for less.) Both believe in the autonomy of the esthetic object, in its alienation from everything but the environment of art, that it must be seen in a separate, alienated space, removed from the viewer, removed from the world.

Of the repeating cubes, Smith writes: "They maintain a surprising aesthetic separateness"; she calls their indifference (to the wall) "dramatic"; she considers how a viewer's revulsion to touch a Judd box is a triumph of "how Judd's work establishes distance - almost keeps us at bay - and affirms its artificial, aesthetic purpose" (Catalogue, pg. 26). Indeed, this distance is part of the structure and meaning - part of the psychology - of Judd's work, but I fail to see how it is a positive quality.

What annoys Judd and the formalists is any attitude which would allow nonart (life) to creep into art - they hate "anti-art," and are quick to point fingers whenever they seek to find it. Dada is the main target. Here is how Judd's notions about this changed from rather liberal to downright dogmatic:

Many aspects often thought essential to art are missing, such as imagery and composition. This is also true of the work of Flavin and Stella, for example; their work is obviously not like prior art. But theirs is plainly aesthetic in intention. Morris' work nearly appears not to be art; perhaps he doesn't want it to be thought art at first, though of course it is finally. (1965)

I prefer art that isn't associated with anything and am tired of the various kinds of dada, and don't think, for example, that the work of Johns and Rauschenberg is so momentous.

Bob Morris' Dada interests are very alien to me... (1969)

With the two "sides" agreeing so well on the immediate past (Pollock, Newman, Still, David Smith, Noland are great; Johns is only clever; anything Dada, surreal, literary or anthropomorphic is out) it is not surprising that they would share a similar view of the art institutions which must validate these hierarchical evaluations. This is how Judd sees his relationship to established history and the institutions of art history:

Q: Do you want your work in a museum?
A: Yes, anywhere. (Writings, pg. 195)

One does not internalize values for no reason.[^]2

Like Greenberg, Judd sees the monetary problem as one of the problems facing a (young) artist. Although Judd reveals a puritanical streak when he alludes to Andrew Wyeth's (monetary) success, and takes Greenberg to task for bringing up the low prices Noland and Olitski fetch on the market (Judd calls it "despicable"), he still wants us to know that one basic thing which is bugging him: how much did it cost (me, them)? His Complaints (Part 2) is an inventory of monetary bitchiness. A review of an early Eva Hesse show mentions little of the work, and (un?)self-consciously goes on about the money problems young artists have, how the young really struggle to get along during their period of artistic experimentation. Judd has positive proof that he was poor; he wrote criticism for purely "mercenary" reasons (Writings, pg. vii). (Why we should attend to a book filled with mercenary reviews by a writer obviously contemptuous of his position is a question I will thankfully evade.)

This is not only an example of how artists must prostitute themselves with "unworthy" activity (remember, the most important thing in Judd's life is art, not writing), but it also shows how Judd perceived the critic's role. He mentions critics being underpaid, but it reads as though he's mad because he didn't get paid enough. In light of his statement "Visual art must be the only...undefended activity left in the United States" (Writings, pg. 207), he might ponder for a moment the state of the activity of criticism while asking why these activities must be "defended" at all.

If one were to believe Brydon Smith and Roberta Smith, Judd's writing should be a paradigm of maturity (to say nothing of empathy for artists). I would tend to side with James Fitzsimmons, who sounds the only real critical note in either book, when, on a rejection slip (yes, Judd has included a rejection slip), he accuses Judd of garrulous, formless, basic Hemingway-type writing (pg. 171). Since Judd has seen fit to expose all, one can readily see how right Fitzsimmons was. One small example from an Art International review will show that, even with an artist who cannot be said to pose any meaningful threat to him, Judd shows an indifference to critical thinking, to the work at hand, as well as to basic organization. Let it stand for pages of similar reviews.

Pissaro is very good at times and dull at others...Several of the paintings have been damaged by extensive varnish, for example, La Cote du Chou a Pontoise, 1882, which resembles Renoir's paintings some...Another good painting and a very different one is La Chemin de Fer de Dieppe, Eragny, 1886, which is sparse and influenced by Seurat. The railway is small. The painting is only fields and sky. (pg. 180)

Judd's review of a Ronald Bladen show is likewise revealing. The review is reprinted with a photograph of a Bladen sculpture - a single, cantilevered box on a wall. "The boldness, size, simplicity and novelty, all general aspects, while interesting, are ultimately not enough" (pg. 75). If, then, none of these is enough, what is?

The answer is powerfulness.

Painting has to be as powerful as any kind of art; it can't claim a special identity, an existence for its own sake as a medium. Painting now is not quite sufficient, although only in terms of plain power. It lacks the specificity and power of actual materials, actual color, and actual space (my italics). (pg. 93)

The words Philip Leider used to describe the work of the best artists of the '60s have to do with images of power, often of actual physical force. In "Literalism and Abstraction" (Artforum, April 1970) Leider calls the paintings of Frank Stella - with a certain relish - "cold, smartaleck, humorless, methodical, insufferably