The death of Brian Sewell heralded the death of art criticism. Or so I said. It was an inflammatory claim, designed to rile, but there was a grain of anxious serious in it. Sewell was not just a contrarian, he was an astute critic of refined tastes and a conscientious objector.
The death of Brian Sewell is a great tragedy. Never again will the acres of art criticism generated by Britain’s newspapers be punctuated by a single shard of intellectual rigour.
We need another like him
A fully paid-up member of the rowdy YBA generation in the 90s, the artist made his name with his household gloss-painted life-size door paintings. On the eve of a solo show at Tate Britain, he talks about his agent Jay Jopling, his farm in upstate New York – and why he now confines his excesses to the studio