Suzanne and I are working on a sequel to Central American Modernism.It’s going to be even bigger than its predecessor because it covers more ground. The first one was on the modern period – roughly from the 1920s to the 1960s. The new book will cover contemporary artists from the 1970s to the present.

I’m excited about this project. It’s going to be important. It’s going to be fun. And it’s already giving me problems.

When we wrote Central American Modernism, we had a paucity of source materials to work with. Almost nothing in the US – even in the libraries of universities with international art studies programs. Nor was there a lot of material online. The problem was simple: Almost nobody back then cared about or thought about Central American art except Central Americans. And most of them were in Central America.

So, Suzanne and I spent about eight years and I spent more than a quarter-million dollars traveling to all six countries repeatedly. We met with museum directors, gallery owners, art critics and historians, collectors and artists – the few that were still alive. We threw parties and went to parties and ran contests and we even set up our own gallery in Nicaragua.

Like almost everything else I’ve done that I’m proud of, had I any idea what a long, demanding, and expensive slog that first book was going to be, I probably wouldn’t have done it. But I fooled myself into thinking I could do it relatively quickly and cheaply. And that got me going. Then, once I got moving, failing to finish it was not an option. To use a younger generation’s phrase, that’s how I roll. Ready. Fire. Aim.

Due to all the work we were putting into it, it began to feel like Suzanne and I were the two top experts in the world on Central American Modernism. So, when it came to making decisions about what should go in the book, I was comfortable making them.

But for the new book, I’ve enlisted help from some terrific people that know a lot more about Central American contemporary art than I do. Suzanne, of course. Also on our team is Alex Stato, who was once the director of LA’s Museum of Latin American Art.

Here’s the problem…

Both Suzanne and Alex are telling me that I have to expand my definition of art. It can’t be limited to paintings and drawings and sculptures, they say. Contemporary art must include conceptual and performance art.

I am having a tough time coming to grips with this. I understand their point. The book could be defensibly criticized for omitting these two important genres. And, in fairness, I’ve seen some conceptual/performance pieces that I thought were clever and even wonderful. But most of what I’ve seen has seemed to me to be more like a con job – a way for hucksters and their promoters to fool otherwise smart people into spending good money on silly things.

If you are not familiar with conceptual and performance art, take a look at “Good to Know,” below, and decide for yourself.

What I Believe: About Fine Art

When I think of fine art – the sort of art that the Met or the Prado or the Louvre would display – I think of paintings, watercolors, gouaches, etchings, and drawings. I think of sculpture, large and small, in clay or stone or bronze or steel. I would also include some photographs and videos.

My definition encompasses the full history of artistic expression. From prehistoric wall carvings to ancient jewelry to Greek and Roman (and other) classical paintings and carvings and sculpture to genre art of the 16th to 19th centuries to Romantic art, Neoclassical art, Impressionism, Expressionism, Abstract Expressionism, Cubism, action painting, COBRA art, naïve and outsider art.

What I don’t think of when I think of art is, for example, a woman painting her body with feces. Or a pile of stones or driftwood on the floor. Or a discarded piece of machinery on a pedestal. Or a dented car fender in a frame. Or a woman dressed in a pink leotard making animal noises from inside an iron cage.

In other words, when I think of art – the sort of art I am happy to call art – I want it to have two things. The first is what some art critics call plasticity – that it is a physical object made of something. And I want it to be something whose aesthetic value comes from its visual self – how it appears to my eyes.

When art is plastic and visible, it can be seen and judged according to its plastic and visible properties. It stands by itself, announcing what it is through itself. It doesn’t need an explanation. And I don’t want one. I want to judge it myself. I want to figure out whether it’s worth anything on my own.

The idea that anything can be a work of art is the core “insight” of conceptual art. The argument is that a urinal, by being placed in a museum, becomes something more than the thing it was before it was pulled off a bathroom wall. That, in seeing this utilitarian object in its new setting, the viewer gets to have a different and somehow more artistic experience of it.

I believe that is half true. When I encounter conceptual art in a museum, it does make me stop and think. But my thoughts are never remotely close to what the pamphlet or placard tells me the artist thinks I should think. My thoughts are, “What an utter waste of floor space.” And, “Seriously?”

If you want to be a conceptual artist, stick to the art form that caters to the brain’s capacity to understand and create ideas and concepts. In other words, become a writer. And if you want to be a performance artist, become a performer. Learn to dance or mime or juggle or tumble or act.