Natural Selection

The Judgement of Paris, Anton Raphael Mengs

“Please make sure to mute your phones, or turn them off altogether. They can be incredibly distracting to the presenters.”

We shouldn’t have needed to be reminded of this. We were all adults. All professionals. I looked around the conference room as the others fumbled their devices into the mute mode. Most of us positioned our phones close by, angled in such a way that we could steal little glances at them, to monitor the flow of "messaging” that demands our near-constant attention - none of it remotely related to the reason we were gathered together in this all-purpose meeting room.

So here we were finally, landscape architects, park planners, local government representatives, arts organizers and administrators, a handful of designated citizen-advisors, and me, the one artist on the panel. We were assembled for the purpose of reviewing final proposals for a public art installation in one of Denver’s neighborhood parks. This was the culmination of a five month selection process. By the end our meeting we would recommend one of three artist-finalists for a project that boasted a budget well into the six figures. It was heady business, at least for me, and I was thrilled to be on this selection committee. When I was asked to join this panel, I was given a packet detailing the qualifying guidelines for the various positions. Among other things, the description for “Artist” said the panelist should have strong peer-recognition. I know it’s a cheap thrill to let yourself feel like a so-and-so over something like this, but given that the practice of being an artist involves long hermetic stretches of self-doubt and no feedback whatsoever, to suddenly have a piece of paper in front of you that confirms your status among peers, well, it felt good. It just did.

A few minutes into one of the presentations my iPhone screen blinked on and I squinted down at it without moving my head, so as not to distract the speaker. I read the first line of an incoming email that began, “Dear applicant, we regret to inform you that your artwork was not chosen…” The message was from an art publication I’ve been submitting to every year for the past seven years. I’ve never gotten in. Each year the juror changes, as does the work I submit, yet after seven tries I still can’t seem to match my work to the juror. I have no idea how close I’ve come, whether I’ve been eliminated in the first round by a grad school intern, or whether some fancy curator agonized over my exclusion in the final moments. The process of jurying is necessarily opaque.

I reached out and powered off my screen. Prickly heat ran up the back of my neck as I felt a quick flush of humiliation. A dark pit opened up and beckoned me inside, but I’ve had plenty of practice avoiding that pit, so I took three deep breaths and returned my attention to the meeting. Total elapsed time of my crushing “fail” was about 45 seconds. I doubt anyone noticed my mini-crisis. Other rejections have hurt more. This one I’m getting used to.

The presenter in front of the room was struggling with momentum. His proposal was likable, but wasn’t blowing anyone away, and you could feel it. This was his big moment and he wasn’t selling us. I felt a pang of guilt for harboring a vote that would not go in his favor. He was probably the nicest of the presenters we saw that day, and I pictured myself having a beer with him. His work was solid, but it didn’t generate the right kind of excitement among the twelve people in the room. And so it was that nearly half a year after the process began, a process which saw nearly 200 qualified applicants narrowed down to this final three, this artist would be eliminated in the last few minutes of our final meeting.

Rejection isn’t a thing. Or it doesn’t need to be. This is what I told myself the other day as I juried an open-call show at a local gallery. The idea I was trying out was that I would select the work that I found strongly compelling, rather than singling out things to reject. That was my intention anyway. And while the net effect would be the same either way, I wanted to curate from a perspective of positivity. Probably I did this because I knew feelings were going to be hurt, and I wanted an out. These are the sorts of ethical gymnastics you practice when you are the one doing the exclusion. This is why rejection letters, like the one I deleted the other day without reading, always take a passive stance. Most say something like “regretfully, your art wasn’t included” rather than “regretfully, your art was excluded.” This is all they can do to soften the news.

For my part, I wanted to be as blind to bias as possible in my selection process. I went out of my way not to see the names of the applicants. But there is nothing you can do when the work is well known to you, except to try to adhere strictly to an aesthetic or thematic framework. Curating a themed exhibit isn’t simply about picking what you like, it’s about building a cohesive story of some sort. That was the challenge I was excited about, anyway. Naively, I figured I could pull it off and somehow avoid any ugly emotional fallout from my choices. This error was unpleasantly clear to me as I held a small artwork in my hands and regarded it closely, knowing it was done by a friend, and that it wasn’t right for this show.

Expulsion from Eden, Michelangelo

According to evolutionary psychologists, the intense feelings that accompany rejection are useful for our survival. In the days of our hunter-gatherer ancestors, the thinking goes, rejection was akin to a death sentence, since to be ostracized from the tribe meant we would have to fend for ourselves in the wild. Interestingly, it is also known that the pain of rejection activates the same neurological areas in the brain that are associated with physical pain, therefore: “Evolutionary psychologists assume the brain developed an early warning system to alert us when we were at risk for ostracism. Because it was so important to get our attention—those who experienced rejection as more painful (i.e., because rejection mimicked physical pain in their brain) gained an evolutionary advantage—they were more likely to correct their behavior and consequently, more likely to remain in the tribe." citation

Some of my creative friends and colleagues flat out refuse to jury local art shows. For them, there is too much potential for wounded friendships and ill-will as a result. I know one Denver gallery owner who still gets creepy emails from a guy whose work he rejected more than five years ago. And as for the applicants, juried shows threaten the possibility of soul-crushing self doubt. Even the toughest of us have survived the initial shock of non-inclusion, only to be thrown into a tailspin later when we see the artwork that was selected. Most of my artist friends who are well established in their careers pooh-pooh the very thought of entering work into a juried show. Why subject yourself to the whims of someone you don’t fully respect, who has nowhere near your level of experience, or whose gallery isn’t critically regarded? And yet these same artists routinely risk exclusion by applying for fellowships, residencies, or public art commissions. It seems that no matter what level of success we achieve, we continually subject ourselves to the possibility that someone whose favor we seek will simply give us a big thumbs down.

So if rejection is so bad for us, in terms of the survival of our species, then why do we engage it so regularly? From that person you'd like to mate with who rebuffs your best attempt at charm to the roomful of muckety-mucks at your job who give a collective “meh” to your best thinking, each of us exposes ourselves to negation fairly frequently. There’s no avoiding it if you want to achieve a level of self-respect, not to mention success. No risk, no reward, as the saying goes.

As for juried shows, I’ll continue to accept invitations to curate. I’m trying to get better at it, and I’m convinced that the local art scene can benefit from more thoughtful, rigorous and challenging exhibitions that are self-produced. Juried shows are also a good venue to showcase emerging talent and can help those artists establish an exhibition record. I can’t think of a better way to get traction in an art community that relies so heavily on DIY methods for career growth.

And the art publication I keep failing to impress? I’m already working on a new body of work I intend to finish in time for next year’s entry deadline. Eighth time’s the charm. Don’t they say that somewhere? China, maybe? In any case, should I find my work vetoed yet again, I already have a plan. Take three deep breaths. Slowly, and as deep as I can make them.