It’s become a crutch. Every artist, curator, gallerist mouthing off about “storytelling” like it’s the holy grail of contemporary art. As if a work can’t hold space unless it wraps itself in narrative. It’s lazy. Worse, it’s safe.
Some of the best work resists language altogether. It doesn’t want to be explained. It doesn’t care if you “get it.” It doesn’t hold your hand. It sits there—stubborn, unresolved, present. That kind of work makes you slow down. Makes you feel stupid. That’s good. Art should humble you. Not flatter you.
The storytelling obsession is about control. If you can spin a tidy story around a piece, you can sell it, promote it, fund it. No ambiguity. No friction. Just another round of familiar themes and identity cues spoon-fed to the audience. It’s marketing dressed up as meaning.
We’ve built an entire ecosystem that rewards legibility over intensity. That’s killing risk. And it’s making contemporary art predictable. Dead on arrival.