I’m not exactly sure why I was invited by the un Extended editor-in-residence to write on the topic of The Crank in relation to the state of art history in Australia. But it might help to shed some light on a brief exchange I had with another sometimes-art-writer/editor that had left me perplexed; after some brief chit-chat my hobby interest in Australian art history somehow came up, which was met with ‘ahhhhh…one of those.’ Those? Is the idea of someone undertaking hobbyist studies of art history, let alone Australian art history, so unusual as to imply crankery...? Possibly, but that ignores the fact that there are true Australian art Cranks out there. These true cranks are phantom figures haunting the fringes of the professionalised art world; they are the residual energy left over after the near-total domination of the institutional art world, which has largely absorbed those who were once leisured connoisseurs and freewheeling antiquarians, replaced now with trained curators and peer-reviewing art historians.
The Crank, distanced from the university and gallery-museum-complex, is unmoored, unaffiliated, although not necessarily unlettered, and operating on their own volition. The Crank is a solitary mechanism. For outsiders, there can be confusion on where exactly the separation occurs between the amateur/hobbyist, the independent scholar, and The Crank. Perhaps what distinguishes The Crank is their mode of address—theirs is predominantly a field of comment, a form of correction, an act of correspondence, etc. At their core, the Crank is simply the critic at large. Yet they all share the same blurred edges, and amongst this unaffiliated trio, The Crank remains a designation which is also an accusation, a threat which can be levelled by the professional. Due to this latent hostility, The Crank is, by default, antagonistic. The Crank is the continuation of connoisseurship by other means; axes to grind, bones to pick, grist to mill. While much is often made of the word amateur’s root in amour, the labours of love, one should not ignore that the root of the word ‘obsession’ is in war; to obsess was originally to be-siege.
If Australian art is itself perpetually marginal, it’s history is doubly so. The crank then may be in-built to its undertaking, given the requirements for enthusiasm and inexhaustibility towards something that is so fringe. An example of this can be found in a recent campaign launched by Leigh Capel, self-described ‘art-fanatic’ and owner of the by-appointment gallery Belle Epoque Fine Arts in Sydney (an extension of his dealings on the secondary market in B- and C-grade Australasian art). Across 2024, Capel harangued the National Gallery of Australia (NGA) over their Ethel Carrick Fox exhibition, which had removed Carrick’s married surname ‘Fox’ in an attempt to liberate the artist from her painter-husband E. Phillips Fox (the exhibition’s title was simply Ethel Carrick). He produced an hour long, two-part video (‘The Carrick Fox Dilemma’[1]), amassing research to convincingly argue that the NGA’s decision was contrary to the artist’s own wishes. He pulled up historic room sheets, contemporary newspaper reportage, Fox’s last will and testament, even extending into graphology with signature analysis. Although impressive, Capel’s exhaustiveness is exhausting and, admittedly, I can’t sit through the whole thing (in true crank fashion, it quickly becomes boorish). Yet, when no one-else could be bothered to provide any opinion, Capel pursued the NGA over the short-comings of what was a rather shallow attempt at historical correction. While one might argue that Capel’s own subtext of anti-woke critique comes across as facile, it was no more so than the NGA’s own severely undercooked attempt at revision. Capel’s campaign did force a kind of institutional response, with indirect commentary coming from the exhibition’s curator Deborah Hart, who was reportedly ‘horrified at the suggestion’ that she may have worked against the artists wishes.[2]
Capel found some support among local newspaper critics, including Christopher Allen, who writes for The Australian, and John McDonald, who was, up until recently, the art critic for both The Age and The Sydney Morning Herald. While both Allen and McDonald are institutional figures, they have increasingly written from a rear-guard position, consistently triggered by the spectacle and middlebrow political progressiveness embraced by major art institutions over recent decades. Since McDonald’s booting from The Age, he has continued to pump out art reviews via Substack, alongside interminable movie reviews and unbearably boring political comment. Through his newfound independence, McDonald has also begun publishing morsels of juicy gossip on the goings-on within the major galleries, funding bodies and grant officials, scraps that could only come from such an ingratiated crank. Another of this conservative old-guard, art historian and critic Christopher Heathcote, has also taken to Substack to publish independent art reviews and institutional commentary, after several decades publishing reviews of Australian art buried away in the right-wing journal Quadrant. In their Substacks and beyond, McDonald and Heathcote are united, not just in an admirable compulsion to self-publish irrespective of audience, but as upholders of an un-scare quoted and untroubled notion of capital-A Australian history, which for many is now itself considered politically suspect, if not somewhat cranky.
In some respects, Australian art history has canonically been indivisible from crankery. Begin at the beginning, which is to say William Moore’s 500+ page, two-volume history, The Story of Australian Art from 1936. Moore, a professional writer but amateur art historian, notably begins with the Wandjina rock-paintings of the North Kimberley, which would become the most iconic and reproduced of any Australian artwork in the twentieth century and a shorthand for the idea of Australian art itself. Yet Moore, following then-popular opinion, discounted any Indigenous responsibility for the works. The Wandjina, he claimed, were painted by anyone but: suggestions veered from the relatively plausible, which in Moore’s case was Malay fisherman or shipwrecked Japanese sailors, through to wilder speculations, such as the Wandjina being proof of Egyptian, Babylonian or Indian journeys to the North Kimberley, depictions of St Matthew, evidence of Aryan tribes or of ancient races since lost to memory (see also, the rumour that Australia was hiding the lost continent of Lumeria in the red centre, as expounded by theosophist Madame Blavatsky).[3]
Even Ezra Pound, the most notorious of twentieth century cranks, was drawn to the Wandjina. Fascinated by the forbidding blankness of their mouthless visage Pound was compelled to include them in his Pisan Cantos (1948). Pound writes of the Wandjina as like ‘Ouan Jin, or the man with an education’ (totemic, perhaps, of The Crank itself). Pound follows the Wanjina Wunggurr peoples when he interprets the Wandjina as figures of plenitude. Whereas for the Wanjina Wunggurr, the figures were instrumental in ensuring more rain, more babies, more yams, etc., Pound imagined that their plenitude was in the production of knowledge itself; they ‘spoke and thereby created the named / thereby making clutter.’ With their mouths removed, this ability was banished as they ‘made too many things / whereby cluttered the bushman’s baggage.’[4]
This quality of clutter, of crankish over-production, continued to follow the Wandjina even as Indigenous authorship for the paintings became increasingly irrefutable. The Wandjina then began to emerge as central figures in a new form of art history, which can be found in issues of the small mimeographed newsletter Australian Saucer Record in the late 1950s and early 1960s. While the zine was a vehicle to track widespread reports of UFO sightings (allegedly ‘No other country has produced more flying saucer reports or shown such interest in the subjects’[5]), there was also the beginnings of a discussion on the Wandjina figures as evidence for alien contact, given their traditional status as ‘Sky People’. Whereas previously the towering figures were interpreted as clothed in flowing robes and surrounded by angelic halos, they were now ensconced in space suits, their mouths hidden behind helmets or gasmasks. The apogee of the Australian Saucer Record’s art historical activity was in 1962, with various chapters urging peers in Darwin to form a research committee and undertake fieldwork to, ‘submit findings concerning Aboriginal paintings of ‘Moon Totem Men’ found in Northern Australia’.[6] These were contributions to a burgeoning field of a global, albeit underground, art history which sought to catalogue evidence of visitation by 'Ancient Astronauts', undertaken by networks of abductees, witnesses, self-declared experts, dissenting archaeologists, rogue NASA employees, and enthusiasts.[7]
There has been some official support; West Australian art historian Darren Jorgensen has argued that the 'Ancient Astronaut' school qualifies as a valid form of art history despite the low regard it is held in (a challenge, as far as I’m aware, that has only been met in the 2007 exhibition The Visitors: The Australian Response To UFOs and Aliens curated by Anne Loxley and Regina Walter at the Penrith Regional Art Gallery).[8] There are some vague links between this milieu and certain counter-cultural branches from the mainstream of Australian art; Neville Drury, who wrote extensively on Australian contemporary art throughout the 1980s and 1990s with his popular New Art series, was an active member of the UFO Investigation Centre in the 1960s, and editor and contributor for the Centre’s Australian Flying Saucer Review. Drury was deeply involved in the esoteric and fringe world, writing extensively on the subject, including a study of the notorious Sydney occult-painter Rosaleen Norton. Vernon Treweeke, who had exhibited with the colour-field painters of the Central Street group, and was included in The Field exhibition, dropped out from the commercial artworld for Nimbin, a UFO sighting hotspot. From the 1970s through to his death in 2015, Treweeke undertook huge psychedelic murals often depicting UFOs (his psychedelic style of painting was, incidentally, initially influenced by his time in London where he witnessed the light shows accompanying early Pink Floyd performances at the, uh, UFO Club).
Similarly, Tim Johnson, another artist who emerged towards the end of the 1960s counterculture, often includes UFOs and aliens as figures within his paintings. Their appearance doesn’t just arise out of an interest in extraterrestrials as subject matter, but also out of a conviction: Johnson wants to believe.[9] Even deeper, the work of more fringe-figures such as Rex Gilroy, once Australia’s pre-eminent cryptozoologist and speculative amateur archaeologist, deserve some recognition. Gilroy, along with his wife Helen, established the Australian Yowie Research Centre, and he is preeminent in attempts to prove the continued existence of the thylacine on mainland Australia. Gilroy’s thylacine investigations took him deep into Australian bushland, where he unceasingly documented previously undiscovered rock paintings, petroglyphs and, supposedly, remains of ancient pyramids. Subsequently, Gilroy compiled a huge catalogue of abstract motifs and degraded but anthropomorphic-looking rocks, which he then archived at his research centre. While his undertaking was on one hand a genuine record of Indigenous art, constructed via a methodology of pattern recognition (which is a mainstay of the crank), Gilroy’s underlying orientalism was preoccupied with the possibility of Ancient Egyptians in Australia, aligning his work as a continuation of the late nineteenth century esoteric tradition that marked the work of Norman Lindsay, among others.
There is a parallel between the ‘paranoid’ quality of this fringe art history with the increased desire for official global art histories. For Jorgenson, this paranoia is ‘the symptom by which we might understand the desire for a global art history.’[10] The desire for universal narratives, which is revealed by those seeking evidence of Ancient Astronauts, ‘exposes the logic of a global thinking that wants to discover the relative historicism of all arts, in the representation of artworks to each other in order to theorise their shared conditions of being.’[11] This seems an apt descriptor of the paranoid-esque interest in the odds and ends of Australian art history that characterises Rex Butler and ADS Donaldson’s long running excavation of an ‘unAustralian’ art. This influential project is in many respects a productive conspiracy theory, a paradoxical process where despite their disavowal of an ‘Australian’ art for a global one, they inevitably return to ‘Australia’, which becomes the secret central organising factor behind twentieth century art. It is John Peter Russell behind Matisse, Roy de Maistre behind Francis Bacon, Australian surrealists James Cant and Eric Smith behind modern Brazilian art, and the obscure illustrator Frank Nankivell behind manga and anime.[12] Butler and Donaldson’s ‘unAustralian’ history is a catalogue of global-local links that coalesce to a theory, hinting that it is all more than mere coincidence.
The unAustralian project is within a distinctly twenty-first century paranoiac model, the networked method, as much a mentality, shaping the very nature of their argument.[13] Disregarding canon, they opt to scour digitised newspaper archives and magazines to unearth forgotten careers, unexpected connections and coincidences, all footnotes and marginalia. Setting out to disprove the very possibility of an ‘Australian' art they ultimately start piecing together the opposite. Conspiracy undergirds the structure and form of their scholarship. This approach shares as much common ground with the world of actual conspiracy writing as it does with the mainstream of art history.
The cross-checked digital-newspaper-archive approach to art history is one that marks a particularly gonzo form of quasi-art history titled Eye of the Chickenhawk, which was independently published in 2023 by the pseudonymous Australian writer Simon Dovey. Quickly having become a modern classic in the genre, it comprehensively outlines an argument for the existence of an international network of child-snuff film producers and distributors across North America, the Netherlands and the United Kingdom from the 1960s to the early 1990s. Eye of the Chickenhawk seems to have evolved as an attempt to extrapolate from a Mark Lombardi-esque prison-drawing from an imprisoned perpetrator, which outlined this global network of front organisations, magazines and individuals. Although Dovey’s book mostly maps the outlines of this submerged network where crime and politics mesh in terrifying ways, the book’s argument seems to emerge from art history; Dovey’s opening chapter is on the snuff film itself, with speculation on Andy Warhol’s supposed acquisition of snuff movies filmed by the Manson Family, and the periphery evidence of notorious gallerist Andrew Crispo’s involvement in an S&M rape and murder.[14] Dovey’s opening line is his own ‘End of Art’ declaration; ‘if art is a peek inside the psyche of society at any given moment, the snuff film is sure to mark the end of it.’
Give the fringe nature of Australian art, it’s not surprising that even the Oedipal Father figure of local art history, Bernard Smith, was something of a crank. Smith started off as an untrained amateur, a schoolteacher and (briefly) a Surrealist painter who gave art history lectures for the Teacher’s Federation Art Society, before art history was an established discipline in Sydney. His 1945 publication Place, Taste and Tradition was assembled from these public lectures, and despite whatever limitations it might have, remains one of the most concise yet comprehensive attempts to understand the history and development of European-Australian art up to that point (of the lecture series, he later noted that ‘most of the Australian-born artists...stayed away....what would a mere school teacher know about Australian art anyway?’)[15] In light of the criticisms of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century obsession with various isms—whether political, artistic, or social—Place, Taste and Tradition also has the crankish distinction in supposedly being the first ever book-length work of Marxist art history published in English.[16] Then there is Smith’s magnus-opus from 1960, European Visions of the South Pacific, which holds at its heart a conspiratorial thesis about the origins of Romanticism that Smith had to firmly disavowal in the 1990s: ‘Some interpretations of my argument have gone so far as to suggest that I claimed that Romanticism was invented in the Pacific. This is not so’.[17]
But The Antipodean Manifesto is Smith’s most notable involvement in pure crankery. The exhibition text was an antagonistic and suspicious stand against abstraction that was deeply tied to Smith’s earlier leftist politics. In it he explicitly argued against the anti-humanist tendencies perceived in total abstraction, which was implicitly built on a stand against abstraction as a false form of internationalism, which itself was merely a cover for American political, cultural and economic hegemony.[18] Smith, a forerunner for all those who now claim that modern art was a psy-op created by the CIA, demonstrates that the line between crank and scholar is one of posture, a question less about being ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, than whether or not you are successfully perceived as being ‘critical’ rather than ‘paranoid’.
Knowing of Smith’s inherent crankery, his later complaints about the direction of art history as a discipline seem more reasonable and understandable, and not simply the generational griping of someone who was now out of step and out of fashion. In 2000, Smith’s called to ‘cultivate the tools of the discipline’ (which he lists as ‘identification, classification, evaluation and interpretation’, which is to say the dating of works, stylistic categorisation, critical evaluation of quality, and finally the interpretation of meaning) was posited as a riposte to the increasing dominance of the anti-antiquarian, anti-biographical strain of art writing typified by October, which was instead reliant on theory and interpretation alone.[19] What Smith found himself up against was not the success of theory as much as it was the consequences of the total-professionalisation of a field that had, in living memory, been the domain of a constellation of contributors ranging from the rank amateur to the educated gentleman. The supposedly abandoned tools of the discipline were crafted by these earlier connoisseurs and antiquarians, tools for analysis that historically required a completely foreign attitude to the one which now marked the professional art historian. Smith’s complaints still seem relevant, as one still does not commonly see professional art historians in Australia undertaking catalogue raisonnés, iconographical studies, dictionaries, list making or archivally driven re-assessment. It appears that this form of drudgery is now too commonly sniffed at by institutional professionals across galleries and universities.[20]
It would be difficult to find anyone which would only accept artists and art made and exhibited purely within the bounds of the institution, the idea of a strictly academic art now retro and regressive. But with the production of art historical discourse, academism appears the only accepted means. There are some exceptions, such as art historian and gallerist David Homewood’s personal mission to re-assess the historiography of pioneering Australian conceptual artist Ian Burn. Homewood has self-published an essay/mini-monograph Intoxication in a New Skill: Ian Burn at Guzzler on Burn’s 1962 student work, an outgrowth of two separate exhibitions of Burn juvenilia curated by Homewood at his house gallery Guzzler in 2022 and 2023. Then there is his mammoth 18,000-word essay analysing Ann Stephen’s publication Ian Burn: Collected Writings, which Homewood published in the DIY Manhattan Art Review.[20] Nominally a book review, Homewood’s text occupies the zone that connects the critic to the crank, outlining a conspiracy of silence and gatekeeping from Stephen, the academic-custodian of Burn’s archives. In his essay, Homewood suggests that Stepen has obscured Burn’s backdating of his conceptual works. A notable passage sees Homewood contesting the date of one of Burn’s famous mirror pieces, through the identification of an art magazine, which is in the periphery of documentation depicting the work. The copy of French art-magazine VH 101 is Homewood’s smoking-gun, Stephen’s purported captioning error proof of a wider negligence over the accuracy of existing Burn scholarship, which itself is a conspiracy to protect Burn’s posthumous legacy.
There is also another Burn reviser, Brisbane gallerist David Pestorius, who for a time was publishing Instagram essays (social media being a particularly fertile platform for crankery), many of which are now sadly deleted—which contentiously clarified certain minor histories of Australian art; including his account of the indifference towards the forgotten abstractionist Mary Webb, his doubts about the claim that Elizabeth Newman paused her artmaking some years after 9/11, even his corrections to parts of Tracey Thorn’s memoir of Go-Between’s drummer Lindsay Morrison. That Homewood and Pestorius have operated galleries out of their own homes seems to rhyme with a crank-like outlook in undertaking art history as a personal endeavour instead of a strictly professional one.
The model of the house/studio/apartment/garage/toilet/passage-way/off-site gallery, which has surged over the last decade or so, provides a stark contrast to those who operate within institutional confines. These ad-hoc galleries are compulsive acts of enthusiasm in the face of a status-quo of indifference. This might point to one of the problems for the art historian: The Crank is a surplus of enthusiasm. This is the inverse of the professional, who’s passion has increasingly become subsumed under the requirements of a job. The Crank, in its ideal form, is a model of aspiration. And what place does aspiration and enthusiasm have in the quiet cul-de-sac of Australian art? Yet, still, The Crank remains not merely cranking around in circles (repetitively, fixated), but productive, cranking out, doing the work. The automatic, automated aspect of the autodidact. The obsessive crank logic is self-sustaining in the face of indifference. To obsess; to bang one’s head against the ramparts.
[1] Leigh Capel ‘The Carrick Fox Dilemma (Part 1),’ YouTube, 13 January 2025, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0RYpWNaVqA, and The Carrick Fox Dilemma (Part 2), YouTube, 20 January 2025, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiI35TSsVvE
[2] John McDonald, ‘Art History gets Foxy’, Everything the artworld doesn't want you to know [Substack], 14 February 2025- https://www.everythingthe.com/p/art-history-gets-foxy, and Linda Morris, ‘This pioneering artist’s legacy isn’t in dispute—but her name is’, Sydney Morning Herald, 9 February 2025, https://www.smh.com.au/culture/art-and-design/this-pioneering-artist-s-legacy-isn-t-in-dispute-but-her-name-is-20250204-p5l9ee.html
[3] There was a general scepticism towards those anthropologists who insisted on Indigenous authorship for the Wandjina figures. In 1946, Frank Clune, a journalist who later opened the Clune Galleries (which represented Russell Drysdale and John Olsen at their career peaks), questioned A. P. Elkin’s academic work, as the claims of Indigenous authorship, ‘did not explain the “Babylonian” robes and the “Egyptian” hawk-headed figures, nor does it explain the inscription.’ Frank Clune, ‘Queer Kimberley Cave Paintings Hint of Mysterious Lost Tribe’, Daily Mirror, 6 February 1946, p. 12.
[4] Ezra Pound, The Cantos of Ezra Pound, Faber and Faber, London, 1975, p. 426-7.
[5] John Michelle, The Flying Saucer Vision, (Ace STAR), 1967, p. 144.
[6] Art as a record of ancient visitation by aliens can be found discussed in Australian Saucer Record, volume 3, number 2 and volume 3, number 3, (both) 1957, and volume 8, number 2 and volume 8, number 4, (both) 1962; and Australian Flying Saucer Review, volume 5, number 1, 1964.
[7] The theory of the Wandjina as proof of alien contact entered popular consciousness with the blockbuster success of Erich Von Durkeim’s Chariot of the Gods series. The argument of Von Durkein’s books was created via a patchwork of images, a huge mood-board which charted an international iconography of extraterrestrial contact across pre-history. He elaborated an alternative history which had hitherto been hidden, due to academic incompetence and unimaginativeness. It was English UFOlogist John Michelle, however, in his The Flying Saucer Vision (1967), who elaborated the most art-historical/aesthetic defence for the Wandjina visitation thesis. Michelle looked to more contemporary examples of rock art in the Kimberley, which apparently depicted recent alien encounters; with Japanese soldiers, Dutch colonists in clogs, members of the Royal Australian Air Force, and surmised that ‘it would be strange if the Wondjina[sic] were the only purely imaginary figures’. Although this followed-on from his neo-Spenglerian perspective which echoed his own burgeoning ultra-right politics, Michelle interpreted this as an Indigenous contribution to the painting of modern life and discovered what he believed was proof of a strictly realist tradition, stretching continuously back into the deep past, which confirmed an equally profound interaction with another radical form of modernity.
[8] Darren Jorgensen, ‘Paranoia and the Wandjina: For the Ancient Astronaut as a Category of Art History’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Art, volume 9, 2008.
[9] For example, see section eight of Helen Johnson’s ‘It seems like everyone knows everyone already so let’s get to work’, un Magazine, volume 6, number 2, December 2012, https://unprojects.org.au/article/it-seems-like-everyone-knows-everyone-already-so-lets-get-to-work/. Tim Johnson’s art has always been involved with the paranormal. His early conceptual art was angled towards telepathy, and it is perhaps possible to trace his abstract, cloud-like shapes which float in the background of his paintings as aligning with his interest in chemtrails phenomena. See Jacquelene Drinkal ‘Human and Non-Human Telepathic Collaborations from Fluxus to Now’, Colloquy, issue 22, December 2011, pp. 147-9.; and a talk by Tim Johnson given at the ANU Art Forum in 2013: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E0X3IjIW-0
[10] Jorgensen, 2008, p. 32.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Rex Butler and ADS Donaldson, UnAustralian Art: Ten Essays on Transnational Art History Power Publications, 2022, pp. 7, 117, 219.
[13] See Haydyn Whites Metahistory and his notion of the ‘tropic’ within historiography in which literary modes shape the argumentation of history itself, like a trellis guides a vine. Butler and Donaldson discuss this aspect of their work in an essay Duchamp and Australia: In opposition, Artlink, volume 40, number 1, 2020, https://www.artlink.com.au/articles/4822/duchamp-and-australia-in-opposition/.
[14] See a recent article on Crispo that claims that, whilst in prison, he bragged about committing further murders, Rachel Corbett, ‘Masterpieces by Day, Torture by Night The art world was his alibi. How the gallerist Andrew Crispo got away with murder’. New York Magazine, 21 April 2026, https://nymag.com/intelligencer/article/andrew-crispo-murder-true-crime.html
[15]. Bernard Smith, ‘My dear Humphrey’, Art Monthly Australia, June 1989, Number 21, p. 4.
[16] The claim is made by Jaynie Anderson in ‘Art historiography in Australia and New Zealand’, Journal of Art Historiography, number 4, June 2011, p. 3. Though it should be noted there has been no further substantiation or analysis of this claim.
[17] Bernard Smith, Imagining the Pacific: In the Wake of the Cook Voyages. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1992, p. 9.
[18] See the discussion in Peter Beilharz, Imagining the Antipodes: Culture, Theory and the Visual in the Work of Bernard Smith, Cambridge University Press, 1997, pp. 116-8. Interestingly, Beilharz also refers to the Antipodeans, who were originally titled the Antipodean Brotherhood, as a ‘conspiracy of boys’. See also Smith’s own discussion of the manifesto and its relation to geo-politics in Notes on Abstract Art (1983) in The Death of the Artist as Hero: Essays in History and Culture, Oxford University Press, 1988.
[19] Bernard Smith, ‘In defence of art history: part 1’, Art Monthly Australia, July 2000, number 130, pp. 5-7; and ‘In defence of art history: part 2’, Art Monthly Australia, August 2000, number 132, pp. 5-7.
[18] David Homewood, ‘Art History Edited’, The Manhattan Art Review, 2025: https://19933.biz/arthistoryedited.html