In the first minutes of the ‘Art Criticism 101’ lecture I attended, our lecturer asked us, “Why are you here?”. Everyone had very professional answers – diving in a new line of work, expanding on the critical knowledge, using writing tools for their curatorial path. I sat there listening to my peers speak of theory, practice, and profession — so neatly packaged. I felt like I arrived without a suitcase. Just a pen. Just the desire to find out why writing feels like trespassing into a house I should already own.

When it was my turn, I said: Because I want to learn how to write. When I say write, I obviously don’t mean the simple gesture of writing (how would you be able to read this if that were the case?), but specifically about art. I find it easy to talk about art with colleagues or clients I guide through Mitte’s finest galleries. I’ve written for artists, describing their work, curating their voice into a text. But when it comes to writing from my own point of view, I fall silent, shy, and afraid. 

Why is my opinion, the only thing that’s truly mine, the hardest to put in ink? My gut says it’s classic impostor syndrome. No one will read this, it says. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe I live in a society that measures worth in likes and shares, where value is currency — and I’m scared my opinion won’t even make a dent. I think of Bas Jan Ader’s I’m Too Sad to Tell You (1971) — a silent, short film of the artist weeping uncontrollably in front of the camera. No explanation. No context. Just raw emotion, deliberately withheld from language. The title is a message, and a refusal: I’m too sad to tell you. And somehow, that says everything.

Watching it, I felt both intrusive and deeply connected. It mirrored what writing often feels like for me — a flood of emotion, stopped short by the fear of articulation. What if I show too much? What if I show too little? What if I’m misunderstood — or worse, ignored?

Ader’s work lingers in that in-between space, where feeling exists, but language fails. That’s where I often find myself when I try to write from my own perspective. It’s easier to speak about art than to speak through it.

That course was a birthday present from my mother, which I asked for. Maybe, a subconscious part of me decided it’s time to grow up and face my fears. Maybe learning to write isn’t about mastering a form — but about finally granting myself permission to speak. Writing, like standing in front of a blank canvas, is an act of exposure. I think of Tracey Emin’s My Bed (1998) — how it lay there, unapologetic, chaotic, tender. That’s the kind of writing I want to do. Unmade but honest.

Maybe this blog is my quiet rebellion. Not a perfect essay, not a polished critique. A beginning. 

_{Tracey Emin, “My Bed” (1998) © Artsper Magazine}