Why only write of the moments of mild success and small accomplishments? On Friday I received two rejections: one from the 'Far and Wide' regional show (at the Woodstock Art Assoc & Museum) which has a different juror each year and from which I've been rejected three years running, and one from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, the 7-month residency-fellowship that takes 8 out of over 600 applicants, that I had to try for (after seeing the place last June) even though I suspected I wouldn't get in. But there was juuust enough of a shred of optimism, or ego, to get me to apply. It was better to know for certain. As for the juried show, since there is no theme or any clue as to what the juror might seek (aside from reading his/her bio), the act of entering such things feels like a random yet necessary gesture, something I'd like to be part of, if I care about either the venue or the juror, but no way of knowing why I don't fit in or if anyone thinks anything at all of my work. With that in mind, I entered another today.
The following night I visited the Whitney Biennial, so I still don't know, but I have an idea. It has something to do with concept and with execution; in other words, what you'd think it would. And something else more worryingly elusive. I felt sober upon exiting the museum. (Not technically. There was a cash bar, and I thought a drink would help me understand. But it had been a long day.)
Anyway, I loved the Art Spiegelman show at the Jewish Museum. The next day I attended a baby shower and went to bed at 5. Not to sleep, just to toss and turn and watch the unyielding filmstrip of words and half-formed thoughts and images flip around my mind. Flip flip flicker then that bright light at the end of the reel and then darkness.