The discovery of any form of art requires an informed audience member, who understands genre (and revolutionary works that transcend genre) and can convey that understanding in clear language to others. In that moment, if the initial audience isn’t equipped with the language to convey the meaning of the piece, what can they tell their friend? “It’s, um, some shapes? Kinda womanish? But, it just, man-wow!” Someone sees Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, recognizes its potential, and mentions it to a friend.

Part of that perception and sharing involves classification. One person may create it alone, but it has to be perceived and shared in order to exist as art. “It is not the critic who counts,” Teddy Roosevelt said, “not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better.” Composer Jean Sibelius remarked that “there has never been a statue erected to honor a critic,” which wasn’t true at the time and has only become less true since, but is a popular enough sentiment to get recirculated.īut if you consider the role of the critic, this sentiment goes too far.

They sardonically noted in a news post that making a movie not for critics was a “rock-solid stratagem.” Hence the nonsense imp hence the cat in the derby.Ĭritics take a lot of grief from creators and their supporters: parasites, snobs, nitpickers, jaded haters of all things passionate. While longtime fans of the PA canon will recognize it as the strip that introduced Twisp and Catsby, the context (as the first box makes clear) was Kevin Smith’s cloying Jersey Girl. Nine years ago (wow, right?), Penny-Arcade posted the following comic strip on their site:

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