Some of these artists are now understandably puzzled by Currin's sudden rise to fame—and vexed by critics' worshipful fetishization of his technique. "They're nice paintings," one of them confided to me recently. "But I don't look at them and think, 'Wow! How did he do that?' " Currin does paint well and with a physical confidence that suggests that he really enjoys what he's doing. He likes to vary his handling, shifting from smooth, invisible brushwork to thick, oatmealy impasto on a single canvas; he gives his colors depth and dimension by applying paint in semitransparent layers—allowing the red to show through a brushy white surface, for example. But these techniques are standard to any academically trained painter or illustrator. Currin has encouraged critics' characterization of him as a new Old Master, presenting himself in interviews as a proud reactionary driven by devotion to his craft. Ultimately, though, the focus on Currin's "technical virtuosity" is a red herring; his technique is notable mainly because of lowered expectations in the most fashionable quarters of the art world.