Jan Hoet

IT IS NO EXAGGERATION to say that I got my start in the art world—look, Ma, I’m in Artforum!—thanks to my incomparable, indefatigable compatriot Jan Hoet. Back in the late 1990s, I was a disoriented philosophy student hanging around Ghent; I enjoyed writing about contemporary art, occasionally managing to get the odd piece published. One such text, about Wim Delvoye’s food-consuming, feces-producing installation Cloaca, 2000, eventually appeared in Kunst Nu, the quarterly magazine of SMAK in Ghent. I am convinced that Hoet, the founding director of the museum, never got around to reading the publication himself; but Delvoye, who was quite impressed with said article (what young philosopher doesn’t want to write about shit?), directed his attention to my writing.A couple of months later, Hoet hired me to oversee the production of the three-hundred-plus-page catalogue that would

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