Kimberly Drew’s This is What I Know About Art is a political contribution to arts literature with her infectious delivery of her journey of personal agency – from uncertainty to determinism- in the artworld.
Published by Pocket Change Collective, the 60-page book reads like a tell-all cover letter of Drew’s early career in the arts. She recounts her progression from trading kindergarten lunches for her classmates’ artworks to becoming the social media manager at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Over this account, Drew leans into fusing the personal with the professional as she navigates the sector with idealistic energy. She takes pride in the work often allocated to early-career arts workers, rejoices in learning from mentors and hones into her desire to share art with others.
At the same time, she effortlessly slips from memoir to discussing the art she encountered along the way, whether through JPEGs on Tumblr, exhibitions with her mother or working with various collections. Within these art references, she ties in the moments she notices flaws within the art system. But Drew is sharply focussed- her realisations always linked to action. On noticing the lack of Black representation in art, she started Black Contemporary Art Tumblr page, noting, ‘I knew I had to resist the erasure of Black artists. I did not want anyone to say that Black artists did not exist.’ Such is the oeuvre of her career so far.
Her prose is clear and concise. Perhaps, because the Pocket Collective is aimed at young adults, there is leniency with the reader. As much as I keep buying and reading art books, making myself sit still and focus on the goal of learning about art, I hate second-guessing my reading comprehension. In contrast, Drew’s short and sharp sentences quickly get to the point and speak straight to her audience, a skill likely gained from her social media expertise – evidencing this way of speaking doesn’t kill ideas.
But even with brevity, she is so present in her first-person approach. Often in arts writing, an authorial voice is missing. You could say this is because of the academic integrity needed to relay information, yet I often read science and history books that lend humour, warmth and imagination. It’s as if the arts writer doesn’t like themselves or trust you, as they give nothing but convoluted lines and dense paragraphs that make you feel cold and lonely. It’s a style that’s informative but robotic- the opposite of art.
There is nothing hostile about the way Kimberly Drew writes about art.The book makes a strong case for arts writing in the first person, as Drew’s experience and worldview feed into her interpretation of art, as well as her passion to share ideas with others. She wears her heart on her sleeve as she recounts taking a chance on the artworld and her transformation from curious student to outspoken advocate. She has a tone of generosity so often missing; the roots of this she owes to encountering Felix Gonzales-Torres, “His pieces helped me think about how I could bring tenderness to my work and that I didn’t have to divorce myself from my own identity.”
Her self-directed gaze gives an everyday tale on how to make it in the arts. Yet, it’s not about you personally nor is it a self-help book (thank. god.). As she interlaces her struggles and triumphs, Drew is resolutely political. She establishes arguments candidly without buffer. ‘It’s absurd to think about how many internships are still unpaid and how elitist and morally corrupt it is to hire unpaid or underpaid labour.’ Need she say more? With a tight grip, she questions squarely, ‘Why aren’t Black people visiting galleries?’
This is What I Know About Art revolves around demolishing the idea that anyone is an imposter within the arts industry. As she speaks on entering the artworld as a young person, she focusses on the nuances of this experience as a woman of colour. She outlines the frustration of facing the sector’s lack of diversity and her instinct to push back. Building her case through personal practice, she brings forth her main theses: Anger isn’t enough. Emotional veracity must be strategic. Drew overthrows any nod to institutional power, propping up the role of personal agency and activism from within the system. As much as she stays humble, she never undercuts her voice: ‘We don’t have to be at the end of our careers to uplift others; we must uplift one another along the way if we are to survive.’
This book would have been a relevant book any time, but it has come at a great moment. On home soil, the Australian Government has hiked up arts degrees by 118%, causing them as expensive as medical degrees, to encourage student to enrol in degrees that lead to jobs (despite the arts making up 6.6% of GDP and hiring more people than mining). Her account is like having an empathetic chat with a colleague on the credibility of our work while also being an entry point for the uninitiated on the need to make its pathways accessible. On the other (more important) hand, Drew’s book comes in at the Black Lives Matter’s strongest days as she emphasises bringing Black art into the conversation, not only to fight for people of colour’s representation and treatment in the industry, but because their art is vital to the movement.
Overall, Drew in this fresh but dynamic work tells us that age and experience don’t merit influence. We can be present from day one, using our love of art to demand that others take up space with us. This is What I Know About Art tells us to do the work.
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