A collection of essays by American art critic Dave Hickey, nicknamed “The Bad Boy of Art Criticism.” When Dave Hickey was twelve, he rode the surfer’s dream: the perfect wave. And, like so many things in life we long for, it didn’t quite turn out—he shot the pier and dashed himself against the rocks of Sunset Cliffs in Ocean Beach, which nearly killed him. Hickey went on to develop a career as one of America’s foremost critical iconoclasts, a trusted no-nonsense voice commenting on the worlds of art and culture. Perfect Wave brings together essays on a wide range of subjects from throughout Hickey’s career, displaying his breadth of interest and powerful insight into what makes art work, or not, and why we care. With Hickey as our guide, we travel to Disneyland and Vegas, London and Venice. We discover the genius of Karen Carpenter and Waylon Jennings, learn why Robert Mitchum matters more than Jimmy Stewart, and see how the stillness of Antonioni speaks to us today. Never slow to judge—or to surprise us in doing so—Hickey relates his wincing disappointment in the later career of his early hero Susan Sontag and shows us the appeal to our commonality that we’ve been missing in Norman Rockwell. Bookended by previously unpublished personal essays that offer a new glimpse into Hickey’s own life—including the aforementioned conclusion to his surfing career— Perfect Wave is a welcome addition to the Hickey canon. "Veteran art critic Hickey delivers another poignant and masterful collection of essays. In each selection, he critically and humorously contemplates cultural zeitgeists and the essence of good art in music, books, paintings, and architecture. His razor-sharp insight and witty prose make for an entertaining read. . . . While his prose is charming and at times aphoristic, Hickey is always serious when challenging the status quo or defending the cultural innovators who, in his view, have realized art’s potential as a medium for beauty, democracy, and unabashed self-expression." ― Publishers Weekly "He remains one of the finest American cultural critics, for he opens his own pleasures to appreciative scrutiny and collective relish." ― PopMatters Dave Hickey (1938-2021) was the executive editor of  Art in America  and the author of 25 Women: Essays on Their Art, The Invisible Dragon: Essays on Beauty , and Air Guitar . He served as a contributing editor for the  Village Voice  and as the arts editor of the  Fort Worth Star-Telegram . Perfect Wave More Essays on Art and Democracy By Dave Hickey The University of Chicago Press Copyright © 2017 Dave Hickey All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-226-33314-4 Contents Baby Breakers, Cool on Cool: William Claxton's World, "Goodbye to Love", Wonderful Shoes, A World like Santa Barbara, It's Morning in Nevada: On the Campaign Trail in Post-Bush America, My Silk Road, The Last Mouseketeer, After the Prom, Firecrackers: Terry Castle Celebrates Her Independence, ¡Una Lesbiana Enamorada! Susan Sontag, His Mickey Mouse Ways, Mitchum Gets Out of Jail, The Real Michelangelo, Reading Ruskin Writing, Palladio's Song, Morris Lapidus: Life as We Know It, Art Fairies, Little Victories, CHAPTER 1 Baby Breakers I went to first grade in Fort Worth with Lee Harvey Oswald. I went to second grade in Shreveport, where my Dad had a gig in some Dixie Greaser Lounge, but we were moving up. In third grade, we lived in nifty North Dallas. Every Thursday, in social studies class, we drew the name of a country out of a hat and wrote a report about it. We made our own folders for each report. Then we would vote for the best cover. First shot, I drew Italy — and how can you fuck up Italy? I had grapes, columns, and a version of Trajan's Market that foreshadowed the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach. My grapes foreshadowed late Sam Francis. They were especially praised, and I won. I got the Hershey bar that was the prize. Next time I reached in and drew Bolivia. Right, Bolivia. I cut out a brown mountain and stuck it on a blue sky. My friend Cecily drew Egypt and she killed it. Perspectival pyramids with scaled triangles of ocher in different shades. These were major pyramids but I won again. I thought this was outrageous. Either North Dallas third graders had developed a prescient taste for minimalism, or I won because I had won last time and now I was the guy who won. The insult festered and I gave my Hershey bar to Cecily because I am a critic and not an artist. I don't care about winning. I care about being right. Meanwhile, at home, my mom and dad screamed at one another. They threw clocks and vases. My mother was late for an appointment one morning. She backed out of the garage in a hurry, spinning her wheels, and ran over my Jack Russell terrier, Milton. She reminded me that it was my damn dog — that she was in a hurry — and rushed off, gone before she was gone, leaving me to bury Milton in the backyard. I took the little b