A slim, barbed polemic aimed squarely at the 1970s New York art world.

In The Painted Word, Wolfe argues that modern art had become subordinate to theory—that paintings existed to illustrate critical language rather than to be seen. Written in his signature white-suited swagger, the book stakes out minimalism, abstract expressionism, and the machinery of curators and critics with equal relish.

Whatever one thinks of Wolfe’s position, the book remains a sharp document of its moment: the rise of art-as-concept, the consolidation of gallery power, the uneasy alliance between money and meaning. It sits somewhere between cultural criticism and performance piece—part satire, part provocation.