Wikied! the untold true story of the art professionals of Oz

# 596

A moment of self-reflection at the NGA

It’s been another manic week, with the Sydney Film Festival and other business keeping me away from the drawing board. While I was weighing up options for this editorial, someone told me to take a look at Nick Mitzevich’s Wikipedia page. Frankly, it had never occurred to me that a page devoted to the Director of the National Gallery of Australia or any other high level arts professional would contain anything but the most basic information. I was duly surprised.

What do we learn about Nick from his Wikipedia page? First of all, that he was born into “a very poor family” in Cessnock, (just like me, but without the “very”!) and lived on a small farm at Abermain. His mother, Chrisoula, was “a beautiful glamorous, sophisticated woman.” I can only imagine how lonely she must have been in Cessnock.

“He says that his parents insisted that their children ‘do something for a worthy cause’, but also ‘let us follow our passions’. He was a shy, introverted child, who had to counter bullying at his high school, Kurri Kurri High, because of being creative and gay.” (Kurri Kurri is chiefly famous for its annual mullet festival).

We learn that Nick’s interest in art was stimulated when his mother bought him a copy of Robert Hughes’s Shock of the New when he was 15. He may even have read it, although he avoids making such large claims.

On and on it goes. We read about the things Nick purchased while he was director of the Art Gallery of South Australia, from 2010-18. The list includes 16 paintings from a single exhibition by Ben Quilty (I’m not sure if this counts as an achievement or a confession). When he left Adelaide in 2018, we’re told the gallery bought Lindy Lee’s shiny, 6 metre high sculpture The Life of Stars as a farewell “gift” for its departing director. "The work is symbolic of what I tried to do here,” he says, “and that's why it's perfect".

It's unclear as to whether that means he tried to do a lot of stellar things, or if he considers himself a star.

The “unanimous choice of the selection panel”, Nick took up the helm at the NGA in July 2018. He brags that his first acquisition was a wax sculpture by Swiss artist, Urs Fischer, that gradually melted. (“Good choice!” we think).

Next we learn that Nick fell off his bicycle in 2020, injuring his knee and “requiring eight weeks on crutches”.

“However,” the entry continues, wresting triumph from tragedy, “in November 2020, the NGA finally opened its Know My Name exhibition, which is part of a large project to recognise Australian women artists from the 20th century to the present, with the aim of addressing historical gender bias.” (Even on one leg he was fighting the good fight against gender bias).

We finish with a couple of pithy quotes, one recording his desire for “an inclusive and tolerant Australia”, the other about his philosophy of collecting: “People think it's about personal taste. It's not. I consider it to be a science. I analyse the past, I think about what's in the collection, I survey what's happening now, and then have to make judgements about what's available.”

There’s lots more, but you get the general idea. What’s so notable about this entry is the chatty tone and the rather frivolous nature of the biographical information. It’s good that Nick loves his mum, but odd to find a parent described in such personal terms. By listing the works of art he acquired, it reveals the shallow fashionability of his tastes, and his ties to favourite local artists such as Lindy Lee and Ben Quilty. To tell us about falling off his bicycle is plain bizarre.

If I were a psychologist, I’d say the injured knee was both a blow to Nick’s equilibrium and a badge of honour that he felt required mentioning in this potted life story. Are we supposed to feel sorry for him or admire his sporting prowess?

Having looked up the Wiki entries for Neil MacGregor and Henri Loyrette, two of the most accomplished museum directors of modern times, I learned very little about their parents or any sporting injuries. MacGregor was born in Glasgow, the son of two doctors; Loyrette chooses to tell us nothing about his childhood or his family. If either of them fell off a bicycle or accidentally hit their thumb with a hammer, they’ve kept quiet about it. Neither are there any “quotes” giving us their philosophy of life, or their thoughts on gender bias. There are no lists of items acquired during their respective tenures at the National Gallery in London, the British Museum, the Musée d’Orsay and the Louvre. Between them, sad to say, they don’t seem to have purchased a single work by Lindy Lee or Ben Quilty!

Interestingly, each of these directors has a controversy listed on their Wiki page. MacGregor, for his opposition to the repatriation of the Elgin Marbles; Loyrette for allowing a Korean businessman to exhibit his photographs in the Tuileries in return for a large donation to the Louvre.

Our Nick, however, has chosen not to mention the scandal over an APY show that could not be opened to the public, or the question marks over some of his more extravagant acquisitions. He’d prefer us to see him as an infallible exponent of the “science” of collecting.

Looking closer to home, I searched for Tony Ellwood, Director of the National Gallery of Victoria, and couldn’t find a Wiki page. Chris Saines at QAGOMA has a page, but it’s empty. Nothing on Jason Smith at AGSA. Michael Brand, the retiring director at the AGNSW, has a very perfunctory entry. Turning to Suzanne Cotter, from the MCA, we find she is “eine australische Kunsthistorikerin, Kuratorin und Museum Leiterin”. It seems Suzanne has not bothered much about updating this entry. Kim McKay at the Australian Museum has a longer entry, but sticks to the bare facts of her C.V.

The only other Australian museum director whose Wiki page has a similar ‘personal touch’ is Lisa Havilah at the Powerhouse. It seems that Lisa grew up on a dairy farm in Berry, and was “disengaged and disinterested in school”, which explains a lot. Her “passion for art” was stirred by her ceramicist mother, and so on. Most of the entry is a list of career triumphs, with never a breath of scandal. Carriageworks, which she left in dire financial circumstances, is nothing but good news. Her stint at the Powerhouse, where she has managed to virtually destroy the place, ignoring all petitions and protests, is given similar treatment. One searches in vain for anything such as this week’s curious story about three extravagant banquets held at the end of last year, and the misleading information given to Budget Estimates.

For Nick and Lisa, Wikipedia is a PR vehicle to present themselves to the world in the best possible light. They both mention their “passion”. By contrast, most of their peers, and their illustrious overseas counterparts, appear to be completely indifferent to Wiki’s charms. Could it be that these peers are more confident in their abilities and achievements, and don’t feel the need for such trumpet blowing?

I’m reminded of the glowing Wiki entry for the Melbourne International Biennial, curated by Juliana Engberg in 1999. Hilariously titled Signs of Life, it lost a huge amount of money and was never repeated. Yet when I looked up the relevant Wiki page, it was described as a landmark exhibition that put Australia on the map, etc, etc. After I pointed out the discrepancy, the entry was immediately altered to something a little more modest.

If there are any Wikipedia devotees out there, maybe someone might look at the entries I’ve described above, and add a touch of chiaroscuro to offset those blinding displays of virtue, passion and expertise. In the interests of accuracy and objectivity, Wikipedia should not be a mere propaganda vehicle for those who want to portray themselves as visionaries. Both of these museum directors have attracted a huge amount of criticism for their actions and if this is not reflected on their Wiki pages it subverts the integrity of the service. Nick’s page, in particular, needs some TLC. Do we really need to know that he fell off his bike?

One fact it does reveal is that he was given an honorary doctorate from Newcastle University in 2022. As he is now referred to as “Dr. Nick Mitzevich” in all public pronouncements, this looks like shameless puffery. Some people have a whole drawer full of these honorary doctorates but never use the title “Dr.” The protocol is that an honorary doctorate is a purely symbolic gesture – an honour, not an earned achievement, and that using the title professionally shows disrespect for all the poor buggers who toiled for years to get their PhDs. In other words, it’s not illegal, but it’s very bad form.

It's worthwhile looking at these seemingly trivial things because it provides an insight into the gulf between real achievement and a PR campaign. I would argue that many of Nick’s major purchases are highly questionable, while his relentless virtue signalling is a turn-off for all those who aren’t especially interested in the identity issues to which he has hitched his wagon. Although he might like to portray himself as a superman there are plenty who would use rather different words. If he deserves a PhD it would be for spin and schmoozing, not for his administrative skills, scholarship, or taste in art. He thinks an XL spreadsheet is something you put on a King sized bed.

As ever, we need journalists who are prepared to cast a critical eye on such things, rather than useful idiots who parrot the press releases. Of Nick’s predecessors, Brian Kennedy and Ron Radford did not fare so well, with every mistake being hammered by the media. In the new media age we seem to believe it wouldn’t be “nice” to mention any blunders or cover-ups, to ask probing questions, or investigate how tens of millions of dollars in public money have been spent.

If Donald Trump is a symptom of an American political system that has become broken and dysfunctional, Dr. Nick, in his own modest fashion, is a symptom of an Australian media landscape that no longer takes arts stories seriously. He has accurately perceived that the media is far more interested in celebrities, and has hastened to portray himself as one.

It could be that he’s closer to the Zeitgeist than his peers, because so many of today’s arts professionals see themselves as far more interesting than the art they present. Another example that leapt out at me recently was Coby Edgar’s essay for the book accompanying the show, 65,000 Years: A Short History of Australian Art. “Personally,” writes Coby, now Curator of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Art at the AGNSW, “as a multi-racial queer cis-woman, I am happy to stay in this time.”

While leaping about in time is not an option for any of us, there’s no doubt almost everybody would prefer to be in this period, rather than say, the Victorian era, let alone those sunny days of hunting and gathering. More worryingly, does a statement of one’s racial and sexual affiliations ensure a better, more insightful essay? One finds this kind of thing repeated almost ritualistically in endless catalogue essays and reviews, as if it were a magic charm that protected the writer from being criticised or questioned. At heart, it’s an anti-intellectual gesture that would have us believe that a writer’s identity is more important than the content of their essay.

As a relatively young curator propelled into a position of responsibility, Coby has adopted that highly personalised style that has become so ubiquitous today. We see the same syndrome in the rise and rise of Tracey Emin, an artist whose only subject is herself, viewed duplicitously as a mirror for every woman’s life experience. Such generalisations from one person’s biography take no account of the wildly different circumstances and contexts of other lives.

There’s a real danger in speaking about oneself assuming that you’re also speaking on behalf of everyone else. There’s also a danger in using one’s identity as a set of credentials that imply some sort of special insight. In this scenario, we’re asked to accept that the thoughts of a “multi-racial queer cis-woman” on Aboriginal women artists, are preferable to those of an unclassified writer who has made a comprehensive study of the topic.

Such declarations of identity lead us to wonder if this is the writer’s only qualification. Coby could be a walking encyclopaedia on the subject but she has put herself squarely under the signs of race and gender. The suspicion is deepened when we read sentences such as: “I have been listening to podcasts about joy and pain. My girlfriend has been reading a book about the bittersweet to me on lazy afternoons, too.”

That sounds very pleasant, but it doesn’t tell me much about Aboriginal women artists. If I were editing this book, I would have asked, politely: “I know everybody else is doing it, and people are obviously encouraging you to write like this, but can you please stop talking about yourself and attend to the topic?”

I know I must sound like a terrible old wowser not to appreciate Coby’s cool, ‘creative’ approach to essay writing, but when I read a book like this, I’m after information about the artists, not what the curator does on their day off. If such self-indulgences are allowed into print it’s because editors feel it would be somehow wrong – racist or sexist, or whatever – to criticise a piece that is so fixated on the writer’s own marginalised status. It would be like criticising the very core of their being.

Take a step back and consider the strange hypocrisy involved in being so self-consciously marginalised while occupying a privileged position within a major art institution. When you have the opportunity to decide which artists get collected for a museum, who gets into exhibitions and who gets left out, it’s a bit ridiculous to keep posing as an oppressed person. This act of self-identification is contradicted by the fact that you have a degree of power and influence others do not enjoy, regardless of origins or sexual preferences. You are an establishment success story pretending to be a social outcast.

At least Coby is relatively new to the task, and a potentially talented writer, which means she has the opportunity to evolve into a curator of substance. Nick has reached the apogee of his profession, an achievement that should command our admiration, but he only seems to grow sillier by the day.

We all have an identity, but whether it’s a source of gripping interest to everyone else is another matter altogether. Nick feels it’s important we know that he fell off his bike, so we can share his pain. Coby wants us to know what a sensitive person she is, judging by what she does on lazy afternoons. Do I care? Would Nick and Coby be fascinated by a heartfelt account of what my wife was reading last week (Banana Yoshimoto), or the time I sprained my ankle when I was working at the NGA?

When we allow biographical statements and essays to slide so far into purely personal matters, or be used as PR offensives, we’re making a mockery of the basic standards by which professional achievement and art scholarship must be judged. This is not a controversial point of view, but it seems we are unwilling to criticise such practices for fear of being thought not nice. These things may be tolerated but they do not engender respect. Rather than feeling too pleased with our own niceness, we should be fearful about being seen and treated as cowardly, ignorant dopes by the rest of the world.

I’ve been writing a piece for The Australian on 65,000 Years: A Short History of Australian Art, which I’m not able to reprint on my site until a week or two has lapsed. In the meantime, the only extra article I can provide this week, while I prepare a review of the French Impressionism show at the NGV, is a film column on Raoul Peck’s documentary, Orwell: 2 + 2 = 5, which was screened at the Sydney Film Festival. George Orwell is a figure who only seems to grow more relevant over time as the world strives to make his worst predictions a reality. Those key concepts from his novel, 1984, such as Newspeak and Doublethink, are now part of our daily lives, with being truthful becoming less important than the quality of one’s spin. All the more reason to throw a little grit into the wheel.