Dear Aunt Art Agony,
I was on an art jury. The grants officer was a man. One woman interrupted me a lot. She said insulting things after I spoke. Also, one of the men talked all the time about beer, erections and breasts. The grants officer laughed, so we all did too.
On the third day, I asked the grants officer to let me speak like he let the others. He said he was encouraging a lively debate. He thought I was shy. I said I didn’t want to go home feeling bad. He said he would help.
Back in the jury, he criticised something I said, in front of everyone. He made up a new rule for jurors that I broke before I knew about it. I was embarrassed.
Most of the grants went to young white men. This jury did not give many grants to women artists. The men’s art was not better than the women’s art.
Art Aunt Agony, I feel terrible now. What should I have done?
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1 comments:
Gentle Reader,
Lucky you! This was one of those character-building moments during which you fall down the rabbit hole. The fearsome machinations of the Red Queen must have really made her grin. Here again we find her aligned with the Queen of Hearts, frosty flesh-eating virus that she is. These viragos work well together. Both blossom in intellectual vacuums. Both are somewhat sophisticated aggressors. It is no surprise therefore, to us, that they created fertile soil for the male predator with sexual problem. You, poor dear, were the Designated Victim of this overdose of power-mongering. They were all afraid of each other, and your forehead had “Pawn” all over it. Now, know that these Queens always organise their playtime well in advance. They are excellent consensus-builders, which is a source of infinite surprise to us, considering their spectacular social handicaps.
Should you have fallen flat on the ground like a toppled playing card? Changed your seat every day? Jumped over the table to check-mate? Brought reverencing presents? Uttered nothing? Sought a King of Hearts to pardon you? Abstained from voting all together? Let us ask the Council of Agony Aunts what each of them has done.
We remain discomfited, unnerved. Can the production of quality art be attributed only to young Caucasian men? Is the ability to understand excellence embedded only in men? Why the bias towards men’s work? In the name of the Goddess of Reason, what are curators thinking when they give these immature, ill-formed, over-entitled nematodes exhibitions?
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