For years and years and years, our family has enjoyed the annual
spring ritual of submitting our children’s artwork to the Young
Artists Show.
For years and years and years, our family has enjoyed the annual spring ritual of submitting our children’s artwork to the Young Artists Show.
Each of my kids has approached this ritual in his own characteristic fashion. Nick would draw something, anything, and then go off to play games with his buddies.
Oliver would choose a recent creation. There was always quite an oeuvre to choose from, because Oliver draws, paints, and sculpts like some kids play video games: compulsively, continuously, obsessively.
Anne would wait until the deadline was well-nigh upon her, then paint a watercolor or color a pastel of dogs or cats or horses. She would be drying it with the hair drier while I put mat and glass and frame and eye-screws on the boys’ entries.
Naturally, things have changed with the passing years. Nick is 20. Even if he were not off at Loyola Marymount University, studying mechanical engineering and drilling with his Air Force ROTC detachment, he would be too old to enter the Young Artists Show.
Oliver, at 17, still has plenty of art work to choose from, but would probably have killed me had I submitted anything to the YAF. He needs it all, as he has been putting his portfolio together for the art department of Biola University, where he has been accepted for next year.
And Anne decided to enter the tapestry she wove last summer, which was a tremendous relief for me: no hair drier, no frame, no mat, no glass, no horrid little eye-screws. She hung it herself, and even filled out her own entry form. All I had to do was accompany her to the Wiley House downtown and pay her $2 entry fee. Heaven!
The second part of the ritual has always been to go see the show. We would go down to the building. In years past, the show has sometimes been held at the Gilroy Museum, once at Old City Hall, and in recent years at the Wiley House.
We would pick up our ballots, color coded for age category, and our obligatory stubby little pencils. We would wander the show, scrutinizing the works, picking out our favorites from each age category, and marking our ballots accordingly. We would deposit our ballots into the brightly decorated ballot box, help ourselves to any left-over cookies, and depart.
We never won anything. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.
This year, the Young Artists Show was an entirely different experience, as there were no ballots. There was no voting. Instead, we were told, the Art and Culture Commission drew numbers to decide which piece in each age category would hang in City Hall for the ensuing month.
I can see the reasoning behind this change. Undoubtedly the same kids were winning year after year. Undoubtedly people would vote for their friend’s work or their child’s work instead of picking the best piece in each category. Undoubtedly Diane Wallace’s students‚ watercolors were more spectacular and garnered more votes than other students‚ works. Undoubtedly all these perceived injustices added up to some big complaints and resentments.
Anne and I do not care. We want the ballots back, with all their faults and follies. We think that having to choose focuses our attention on the art work more. And is that not the point of an art show, to really, really look at the art?
So Anne and I wandered around the show, trying to pay as much attention as in years prior. We went home, feeling vaguely disappointed. And the next Monday, Cathy Mirelez called with exciting news: Anne’s number had been drawn by the Art Commission. Her weaving, The All-American Tapestry, will hang in City Hall all this month.
Anne would like me to tell you that there is very little satisfaction in being chosen by lot. She would rather that some other child won, fair and square, and got to see his work showcased for merit. Even if it means she never wins another prize in an art show, we want the ballots back.
