Principal Juror – Bill Arning, Curator, MIT List Center of Visual Art

Editor's Comments - As 2006 begins, I realize with a mixture of pride and horror that I have been jurying and judging the work of aspiring visual artists for over two decades. By this, I mean those situations that are beyond my normal professional function as either a curator or a critic. In those situations, one is constantly judging art, but the artists/practitioners who are either not shown or not written about are never aware of being overlooked. Rather, I am referring to situations, such as this one, where one’s response when faced with a slate of images is to say either “yes” or “no” to persons that have chosen to put their work on the line. In some cases one also bestows prizes, so more than ego/career development hang in the balance. It is only in these artificial and anomalous situations that I am forced to recognize and speak about the most harshly draconian aspects of my chosen field.

By and large I still enjoy the process, which most often consists of looking at scores of images, hoping that every twenty or so pictures something will pass before my eyes that will pleasurably raise my pulse. The hardest part of it is never the time involved, as one can be pretty sure of which paintings one has an active antipathy towards in microseconds. Likewise those that are unintentionally derivative of someone else’s art are easily dismissible, as that fault does continue to disqualify one from play in this highly competitive field. It’s the ten percent or so that might be of interest that take time, as those require that you look clearly with fresh (or refreshed) eyes, with only the occasional green tea or espresso to cut the fog. After the first twenty years of doing this, it’s a miracle anything registers, yet each crop of artists arrive and a small, but not insignificant, percentage do impress themselves into my short term memory; a smaller percentage than that slip over into long term; and I know that there are a few I will learn to care deeply about, and those will add something to the larger fabric of my life.

Despite the fact that I will probably, at some point, be professionally involved supporting some of these artists in a more profound way, all the refusals I have meted out over the years must have done a number on my karma. In each of the hundred or so situations in which I have served as either sole judge, or one of a panel, it is only a small percentage of the applicants that receive any positive recognition at all. If hurting someone worthy is karmicly worse, I know I am guilty of that, too, as every juror knows that despite one’s most careful deliberations some very good work gets sacrificed or overlooked.

Also as this edition of the journal includes those parts of the country where I have worked for most of my career, I have seen more shows by the applicants than in most contests. Despite the blind, no-names part of the process, I was able to recognize the work of a significantly higher percentage than usual. I have a distinct ability to associate names and artworks together after one viewing, so in many cases I did remember having seen work and in which gallery I had seen it, even if I did not spend a tremendous amount of time with it. But I was able to use sense memories of how the work looked in person to complete that which was lost in slides. So I am both quite confidant in my choices, but also a little saddened that there are fewer absolute newbies to the scene in this volume than when I have judged artists from less plugged-in areas of the world (but that is neither a plus nor a minus for viewers of the volume, just for me).

The startling thing, when I think back on the possibly millions of artists I have had to render opinions on over the years, is that they keep coming. With more MFA programs and alternative career tracks and crossover dreams, the line of hopefuls is forever replenished. If the gang at The Open Studios Press reopened this competition tomorrow, with the only requirement being that only artists who did not apply this time could submit next time, they would have an equal number, and given the same time I could craft another, hopefully different but not-unrelated book.

Now I can shudder at that fact or celebrate it, depending on my mood. If I visualize the last two decades as littered with those who never had their shot at the big time, and visualize the future as already populated by spectral possible artists hungering for more attention than the world collectively has to offer, it is horrifying. But if I see in the past a future as overfilled with people trying to make a contribution to culture, and having a fine time creating for whatever public they manage to get in front of, and some of them getting the prize, it seems fine to be part of it.

I recently attended a panel discussion on current art practice. The panel was a well-credentialed mix of curators, critics, art historians and artists, a celebrated lot, all of whom had a lot to say on how art was being made today. The talk drifted toward crisis and endgame strategies, and most importantly the death of the model of art production that emerged after WWII and has remained stunningly consistent from then till now. Artists––understood as painters, sculptors or photographers––go to art schools, learn their craft move their practice to an arts center and hopefully garner enough business sense to find appropriate contexts to put their works on public view.

Real estate concerns and life style choices had, according to the collective wisdom of the panel, killed the rich fields of outlying areas in cities where artists find studios and adequate space to realize dreams. The over-professionalization of art world practice had effectively disqualified everyone without a trust fund and a video production crew. The whole idea of someone trying to make a contribution without means and with only art supplies was impossible today, and so we were facing a paradigm shift of historic proportions and perhaps even the word “art” would soon be proved an anachronism referring to nothing real, or at least nothing anyone today would have a reason to make.

Then a fine painter, who is also a beloved teacher, calmly acknowledged the undisputable truth of the argument, but cautioned that every year a few dozen young artists leave her tutelage and move to the big city to make art, and they, as she said, “seem to do alright.” That truth trumps all others and this volume is a testament to that fact.