Ultracrepidarian (pronounced uhl-truh-krep-i-dair-ee-uhn)
Of or
pertaining to a person who criticizes, judges, or gives advice outside their
area of expertise
1819: An
English adaptation of the historic words sūtor, ne ultra crepidam, uttered
by the Greek artist Apelles and reported by the Pliny the Elder. Translating literally as “let the shoemaker venture
no further” and sometimes cited as ne supra crepidam sūtor judicare, the
translation something like “a cobbler should stick to shoes”. From the Latin, ultra is beyond, sūtor
is cobbler and crepidam is accusative singular of crepida (from
the Ancient Greek κρηπίς (krēpís)) and means sandal or sole of a
shoe.
Ultracrepidarianism describes the tendency among some to offer opinions and advice on matters beyond their competence. The word entered English in 1819 when used by English literary critic and self-described “good hater”, William Hazlitt (1778–1830), in an open letter to William Gifford (1756–1826), editor of the Quarterly Review, a letter described by one critic as “one of the finest works of invective in the language” although another suggested it was "one of his more moderate castigations" a hint that though now neglected, for students of especially waspish invective, he can be entertaining. The odd quote from him would certainly lend a varnish of erudition to trolling. Ultracrepidarian comes from a classical allusion, Pliny the Elder (circa 24-79) recording the habit of the famous Greek painter Apelles (a fourth century BC contemporary of Alexander the Great (Alexander III of Macedon, 356-323 BC)), to display his work in public view, then conceal himself close by to listen to the comments of those passing. One day, a cobbler paused and picked fault with Apelles’ rendering of shoes and the artist immediately took his brushes and pallet and touched-up the sandal’s errant straps. Encouraged, the amateur critic then let his eye wander above the ankle and suggested how the leg might be improved but this Apelles rejected, telling him to speak only of shoes and otherwise maintain a deferential silence. Pliny hinted the artist's words of dismissal may not have been polite.
So critics should comment only on that about which they know. The phrase in English is usually “cobbler, stick to your last” (a last a shoemaker’s pattern, ultimately from a Germanic root meaning “to follow a track'' hence footstep) and exists in many European languages: zapatero a tus zapatos is the Spanish, schoenmaker, blijf bij je leest the Dutch, skomager, bliv ved din læst the Danish and schuster, bleib bei deinen leisten, the German. Pliny’s actual words were ne supra crepidam judicaret, (crepidam a sandal or the sole of a shoe), but the idea is conveyed is in several ways in Latin tags, such as Ne sutor ultra crepidam (sutor means “cobbler”, a word which survives in Scotland in the spelling souter). The best-known version is the abbreviated tag ultra crepidam (beyond the sole), and it’s that which Hazlitt used to construct ultracrepidarian. Crepidam is from the Ancient Greek κρηπίς (krēpís) and has no link with words like decrepit or crepitation (which are from the Classical Latin crepare (to creak, rattle, or make a noise)) or crepuscular (from the Latin word for twilight); crepidarian is an adjective rare perhaps to the point of extinction meaning “pertaining to a shoemaker”.
The related terms are "Nobel disease" & "Nobel syndrome" which are used to describe some of the opinions offered by Nobel laureates on subjects beyond their specialization. In some cases this is "demand" rather than "supply" driven because, once a prize winner is added to a media outlet's "list of those who comment on X", they are sometimes asked questions about matters of which they know little. This happens because some laureates in the three "hard" prizes (physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine) operate in esoteric corners of their discipline; asking a particle physicist something about plasma physics on the basis of their having won the physics prize may not elicit useful information. Of course those who have won the economics or one of what are now the DEI (diversity, equity and inclusion) prizes (peace & literature) may be assumed to have helpful opinions on everything.
Jackson Pollock (1912-1956): Blue Poles
In 1973,
when a million dollars was a still lot of money, the National Gallery of
Australia, a little controversially, paid Aus$1.3 million for Jackson Pollock’s (1912-1956) Number 11, 1952, popularly known as Blue Poles since it was first
exhibited in 1954, the new name reputedly chosen by the artist. It was some years ago said to be valued at up to US$100
million but, given the increase in the money supply (among the rich who trade this stuff) over the last two decades odd, that estimate may now be conservative and some have suggested as much as US$400 million might be at least the ambit claim.
Blue
Poles emerged
during Pollock’s "drip period" (1947-1950), a method which involved
techniques such throwing paint at a canvas spread across the floor. The art industry liked these (often preferring the more evocative term "action painting") and they remain
his most popular works, although at this point, he abandoned the dripping and
moved to his “black porings phase” a darker, simpler style which didn’t attract
the same commercial interest. He later
returned to more colorful ways but his madness and alcoholism worsened; he died in a drink-driving
accident.
Although the general public remained uninterested (except by the price tags) or sceptical, there were critics, always drawn to a “troubled genius”, who praised Pollock’s work and the industry approves of any artist who (1) had the decency to die young and (2) produced stuff which can sell for millions. US historian of art, curator & author Helen A Harrison (b 1943; director (1990-2024) of the Pollock-Krasner House and Study Center, the former home and studio of the Abstract Expressionist artists Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner in East Hampton, New York) is an admirer, noting the “pioneering drip technique…” which “…introduced the notion of action painting", where the canvas became the space with which the artist actively would engage”. As a thumbnail sketch she offered:
“Reminiscent
of the Surrealist notions of the subconscious and automatic painting, Pollock's
abstract works cemented his reputation as the most critically championed
proponent of Abstract Expressionism. His visceral engagement with emotions,
thoughts and other intangibles gives his abstract imagery extraordinary
immediacy, while his skillful use of fluid pigment, applied with dance-like
movements and sweeping gestures that seldom actually touched the surface, broke
decisively with tradition. At first sight, Pollock's vigorous method appears to
create chaotic labyrinths, but upon close inspection his strong rhythmic
structures become evident, revealing a fascinating complexity and deeper
significance. Far from being calculated
to shock, Pollock's liquid medium was crucial to his pictorial aims. It proved the ideal vehicle for the mercurial
content that he sought to communicate 'energy and motion made visible -
memories arrested in space'.”
Critics either less visionary or more fastidious seemed often as appalled by Pollock’s violence of technique as they were by the finished work (or “products” as some labelled the drip paintings), questioning whether any artistic skill or vision even existed, one finding them “…mere unorganized explosions of random energy, and therefore meaningless.” The detractors used the language of academic criticism but meant the same thing as the frequent phrase of an unimpressed public: “That’s not art, anyone could do that.”
There
have been famous responses to that but Ms Harrison's was practical, offering
people the opportunity to try. To the
view that “…people thought it was arbitrary, that anyone can fling paint around”,
Ms Harrison conceded it was true anybody could “fling paint around” but that
was her point, anybody could, but having flung, they wouldn’t “…necessarily
come up with anything.” In 2010, she
released The Jackson Pollock Box, a kit which, in addition
to an introductory text, included paint brushes, drip bottles and canvases so
people could do their own flinging and compare the result against a Pollock. After that, they may agree with collector Peggy
Guggenheim (1898-1979) that Pollock was “...the greatest painter since Picasso” or remain
unrepentant ultracrepidarians. Of course, many who thought their own eye for art quite well-trained didn't agree with Ms Guggenheim. In 1945, just after the war, Duff Cooper (1890–1954), then serving as Britain's ambassador to France, came across Pablo Picasso (1881–1973) leaving an exhibition of paintings by English children aged 5-10 and in his diary noted the great cubist saying he "had been much impressed". "No wonder" added the ambassador, "the pictures are just as good as his".
Helen A Harrison, The Jackson Pollock Box (Cider Mill Press, 96pp, ISBN-10:1604331860, ISBN-13:978-1604331868).
Dresses & drips: Three photographs by Cecil Beaton (1904-1980), shot for a three-page feature in Vogue (March 1951) titled American Fashion: The New Soft Look which juxtaposed Pollock’s paintings hung in New York’s Betty Parsons Gallery with the season’s haute couture by Irene (1872-1951) & Henri Bendel (1868-1936).
Beaton choose the combinations of fashion and painting and probably pairing Lavender Mist (1950, left) with a short black ball gown of silk paper taffeta with large pink bow at one shoulder and an asymmetrical hooped skirt by Bendel best illustrates the value of his trained eye. Critics and social commentators have always liked these three pages, relishing the opportunity to comment on the interplay of so many of the clashing forces of modernity: the avant-garde and fashion, production and consumption, abstraction and representation, painting and photography, autonomy and decoration, masculinity and femininity, art and commerce. Historians of art note it too because it was the abstract expressionism of the 1940s which was both uniquely an American movement and the one which in the post-war years saw the New York supplant Paris as the centre of Western art. There have been interesting discussions about when last it could be said Western art had a "centre".
Whether the arguments about what deserves to be called “art” began among prehistoric “artists” and their critics in caves long ago isn’t known but it’s certainly a dispute with a long history. In the sense it’s a subjective judgment the matter was doubtless often resolved by a potential buyer declining to purchase but during the twentieth century it became a contested topic and there were celebrated exhibits and squabbles which for decades played out before, in the post modern age, the final answer appeared to be something was art if variously (1) the creator said it was or (2) an art critic said it was or (3) it was in an art gallery or (4) the price tag was sufficiently impressive.
So
what constitutes “art” is a construct of time, place & context which
evolves, shaped by historical, cultural, social, economic, political &
personal influences, factors which in recent years have had to be cognizant of the
rise of cultural equivalency, the recognition that Western concepts such as the
distinction between “high” (or “fine”) art and “folk” (or “popular”) art can’t
be applied to work from other traditions where cultural objects are not classified by a graduated hierarchy.
In other words, everybody’s definition is equally valid. That doesn’t mean there are no longer
gatekeepers because the curators in institutions
such as museums, galleries & academies all discriminate and thus play a
significant role in deciding what gets exhibited, studied & promoted, even though few would now dare to suggest what is art and what is not: that would be cultural imperialism.
In
the twentieth century it seemed to depend on artistic intent, something which transcended a traditional measure such as aesthetic value but as the graphic art in advertising
and that with a political purpose such as agitprop became bigger, brighter and
more intrusive, such forms also came to be regarded as art or at least worth of
being studied or exhibited on the same basis, in the same spaces as oil on canvas portraits & landscapes. Once though, an
unfamiliar object in such places could shock as French painter & sculptor
Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968) managed in 1917 when he submitted a porcelain urinal as his
piece for an exhibition in New York, his rationale being “…everyday objects raised to the dignity of a
work of art by the artist's act of choice.” Even then it wasn’t a wholly original
approach but the art establishment has never quite recovered and from that urinal to Dadaism, to soup cans to unmade beds, it became accepted that “anything goes” and people should be left to make of it what they will. Probably the last remaining reliable guide to what really is "art" remains the price tag.
1948 Cisitalia 202 GT (left; 1947-1952) and 1962 Jaguar E-Type (1961-1974; right), Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), New York City.
Urinals tend not to be admired for their aesthetic qualities but there are those who find beauty in things as diverse as mathematical equations and battleships. Certain cars have long been objects which can exert an emotional pull on those with a feeling for such things and if the lines are sufficiently pleasing, many flaws in engineering are often overlooked. New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) acknowledged in 1972 that such creations can be treated as works of art when they added a 1948 Cisitalia 202 GT finished in “Cisitalia Red” (MoMA object number 409.1972) to their collection, the press release noting it was “…the first time that an art museum in the U.S. put a car into its collection.” Others appeared from time-to-time and while the 1953 Willys-Overland Jeep M-38A1 Utility Truck (MoMA object number 261.2002) perhaps is not conventionally beautiful, its brutish functionalism has a certain simplicity of form and in the exhibition notes MoMA clarified somewhat by describing it as a “rolling sculpture”, presumably in the spirit of a urinal being a “static sculpture”, both to be admired as pieces of design perfectly suited to their intended purpose, something of an art in itself. Of the 1962 Jaguar E-Type (XKE) open two seater (OTS, better known as a roadster and acquired as MoMA object number 113.996), there was no need to explain because it’s one of the most seductive shapes ever rendered in metal. Enzo Ferrari (1898-1988) attended the 1961 Geneva Motor Show (now defunct) when the Jaguar staged its stunning debut and part of E-Type folklore is he called it “the most beautiful car in the world”. Whether those words ever passed his lips isn’t certain because the sources vary slightly in detail and il Commendatore apparently never confirmed or denied the sentiment but it’s easy to believe and many to this day agree just looking at the thing can be a visceral experience. The MoMA car is finished in "Opalescent Dark Blue" with a grey interior and blue soft-top; there are those who think the exhibit would be improved if it was in BRG (British Racing Green) over tan leather but anyone who finds a bad line on a Series 1 E-Type OTS is truly an ultracrepidarian.
