That is certainly true for me, and I do find it hard to explain why that might be the case. I was launched on this train of thought yesterday, reading an article about Andy Warhol in the London Review of Books. (A new biography of him has just appeared, by Blake Gopnik.) For the life of me I cannot raise any enthusiasm for Warhol’s work. Believe me, I have tried, but I’m afraid that it just leaves me thinking, “So what?” Even having read Colm Toibin’s log appreciative piece I am no further forward.
I have the same response to some other painters also. Cy Twombly I find deeply problematic. I would be very grateful if somebody could tell me why on earth his work ever gained a positive estimation. Jean-Michel Basquiat is another one. In each case they seem to be playing a game the rules of which have simply never been explained to me. Alternatively, my response resembles that of a person in a railway carriage in which the other passengers are speaking a foreign language, and one evidently not even belonging to a family of languages which one can recognise.
Believe me, I don’t think that I am narrow-minded about art, and I can respond very positively to all kinds of things, sometimes to my own surprise. I would be very grateful if somebody could give me a few hints as to where I might begin with these guys. I’m not prone to philistine dismissal of work that is initially unfamiliar, and I’m happy to make an effort. It is just that with some artists the effort I do make never seems to be rewarded.