Small is the new art

With the New Year upon us, my first resolution is to talk much, much less about the so-called Young Bright Artists (YBAs). They are no longer young; in fact, they are the new Establishment.

This recognition is made at some personal and emotional cost. I grew up with this generation of artists, and their work made me rethink everything I thought I knew about art. But artists are not supposed to grow old gracefully, or become pillars of predictability.

Tracey Emin's recent show in Oxford did her no favours, and I wonder just how much angst she has left to recycle. I find Emin's work sporadically touching, but three years after she last slept in it her unmade bed is still the first and last thing of hers that anyone mentions. Next year promises the book and the film.

I also pledge to talk less about Damien Hirst. The tiny spot painting that he sent on a mission to Mars proves he has lost none of his genius for self-publicity. In November, we can expect his first London show in more than six years. Rumours suggest that he's working on a series of black paintings encrusted with dead flies.

In the hub of Hoxton Square, Gary Hume and Jake and Dinos Chapman had outstanding shows at White Cube2, which grew by two storeys this year. Gary honed his pop sensibilities, and matured into a sturdy painter. But no surprises. And the Chapman brothers' installation of hand-carved Big Mac Africana, impressive as it was, did not reorder the art landscape.

Resolving not to talk about YBAs means that "conceptual" and " neoconceptual" (as in "conceptual bullshit", to quote culture minister Kim Howells) will have to be expunged from my vocabulary. Even the Saatchi brand may have to go on hold until he reopens shop. And I won't utter the name " Turner" until Michaelmas, except in the context of the proposed Margate mausoleum to the great Victorian artist.

Abandoning the anchorage of YBA terminology could leave me floundering for the "next big thing". Interesting hints abound, the best of them at the Whitechapel's Early One Morning show in July. This was all about new sculpture - real sleevesrolledup stuff - nothing slick or over-produced. The hands-on unpretentiousness of Gary Webb's constructions incorporated plastics, rubber, wood and neon, while Jim Lambie taped the floor with strips of gold and silver foil. Webb and Lambie are the artworld's Cheeky Boys, and they're not onehit wonders. Watch their spaces.

I resolve to attend fewer biennials: the format has run its course. Every city now seems to have one. Documenta in Kassel was this year's curatorial blockbuster, a five-year accumulation of disappointing ideas. Manifesta, which moves from city to city, passed untransformingly through Frankfurt. There is even a Tirana biennial, but its Italian organisers struggled to make it work in Albanian conditions. Next year they're moving it to Prague.

The one exception I am making is to book for the Venice Biennale in the summer. It's a massively flawed monument to old-fashioned nationalisms- - the pre-war national pavilions reflect a very old-world order - but if the art lets you down, there's always the Canaletto canalscape outside.

I resolve, instead, to visit more art fairs. This sounds like intellectual heresy since art fairs can be vulgar displays of commodity. But while biennial curators make huge claims for the art they have gathered, art fairs are piled high with stuff that speaks for itself. The best is in Basel, when close to 50,000 people surge through its gangways in less than a week. Who can deny its place as a taste-maker?