The seduction of Conceptual art—its promise of beauty or truth, its appeal to human meaning and consequence, its lure of aesthetic delight—has never really been a function of the concept. The form of this or that banal idea, like the shape of this or that clunky sculpture or the color of this or that homogeneous field of paint, can never effect such a seduction on its own and thus has to be supplemented if it wants to make any reasonable claim on its beholders as art qua art. After the novelty wears off, who cares if a canvas is all black or all blue or all white, or if a sculpture’s medium—its “primary object,” as it was once called—is a box or brick or light fixture? Only the most deadened ivory-tower academic, jaded industry insider, or aimless gilded-cage connoisseur. Who cares if the concept is a dictionary definition or (as Sol LeWitt put it in his founding explanation of Conceptual
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