We The Jury

The early years

For most of us, the word jury conjures up the official summons for civic duty, a mandatory “request” temporarily inviting us to join a group of our peers for the purpose of pronouncing guilt or innocence upon the accused.

For artists who’ve run away and joined the festival circuit, the term jury means almost the same thing.



A later incarnation

 Many times over the years, while Groom and I have been in our jewelry booth, innocent customers have asked the question, “So did you guys just show up here and set up your tent?”

Yep, that’s exactly how it happened, except for NOT.

Let me tell you how it’s done. First, we have to cultivate a list of viable shows. This requires a lot of research and sometimes money, because a few smart people - after having discovered how much effort it takes to track down the names of art fairs and festivals, who the promoters are, the dates of the show, the application process, the jurying fee, the deadlines, the criteria and etc., ad infinitum - have decided to keep this information secret and sell it for a lofty price.

Just because a person now has possession of the coveted list does not necessarily mean all of the shows are practical or profitable. More research is required, picking the brains of other artisans who may or may not have previously participated.

So much of one’s success depends on weather, the economic status of the town (or state as we have recently learned on a trek to California), the location of the show (shady park or sizzling street), the length of time it has been operating, how much advertising the promoters are willing to do, well, you get the idea.

In the Pacific Northwest, climate dictates the relatively short show season, so as is often the case, several prime shows occur on the same weekend which quite frankly is heartbreaking. If only they would stagger themselves on the calendar for a more user friendly dance card. It seems as though they all get bunched up at once, having us travel from one corner of Washington to the mid-section of California within the span of a week, leaving no time for rest, stock infusion or petting the cat.

Once the list is in hand, the calendar looking like a drunken game of connect-the-dots, the application process begins.

When we first made our debut, back in ‘91, we were selling exclusively at the Eugene Saturday Market. One day, a promoter of a local show invited us to participate and we were given a lovely booth spot and some column inch space in the newspaper as an “invited artist.” Wow, that was easy.

A promoter of another show saw our work and invited us to apply to theirs up in the Portland area, but said we’d have to take photos and fill out a form. Well, okay. So I just rifled through our box of stock and selected a few pieces that seemed intent on becoming our “best sellers.” Holding them in one hand, I just went out into the front yard and took the photo myself with the other.

Yes, I had to take the film to the drugstore and have it developed, but that was it. I simply dropped five pictures and the application form into whatever envelope I had and mailed it. We got in. The early 90’s were like that.



Nice hair shadow!



In some cases, we actually had to drive to the host town, such as Bellevue, Washington, months prior to the show so that the promoters could take a look-see at our work. If they liked it, we were in, which they did and so we were. Of course, this was expensive as we had to spend money on gas, hotel and food, plus take the time out of our creating schedule to do it, but that’s how it was done so we did it.

After a few seasons applying for shows in that fashion, things began to change. Instead of print photographs, some shows were starting to demand slides, so we had to invest in double the film and developing. After a couple few years of that, most of the shows got on the same page and they all went to slides.

Instead of a local promoter simply looking at the photos included in the envelope and deciding upon which vendors to include, now a bunch of slide projectors had to be set up, all the multitudes of little slides had to be placed into the slide projectors right side up and time set aside to look at them all, one right after the other.

Photographs allowed the promoters time to think, as they could look at them one by one as the mail brought them in until the deadline. They could put them in different piles to mull it over and see what else showed up. We usually got in.

When they switched to slides, suddenly the promoter (and probably some friends or family) had to sit in the dark and see one image after the other, or perhaps all of one artist’s projected simultaneously. Whatever the case, it was overwhelming and after awhile, they all sort of ran together and they got tired and we started not to get in.

After panicking a bit, this is our living after all, we learned that a panel of professional artists had been hired to look at the slides and weed the good from the bad. This was called a jury. Yep, they would pronounce sentence on our artwork and we would be allowed in the show and make some money, or rejected and allowed to starve.

More panic and research ensued. Those who were getting in were paying professional photographers to take the slide shots. For those in the jury, the quality of the slide is what became noticeable and separated the chaff from the wheat.

Suddenly, we had to fork out hundreds of dollars for what we’d been doing ourselves. But the quality of our slides went up and we were getting into the better shows, so it all paid off. Phew!

But evolution marches on and the digital age encroached upon us. Now, it seemed, it was easy peasy to take digital shots of one’s own work. This opened up the field and more and more people started applying to shows, creating a shortage of spaces compared to the overwhelming number of applicants.

We still managed to get in, until… Until those with advanced computer skills raised the bar and now the quality of digital shots had to be flawless. Until a company called Zapplication became the standard by which we all have to apply. Until we started not getting into as many shows.

More panic and research. One now cannot just have flawless digital images. One must create a body of work that has theme and focus. A collection, if you will. We cannot submit work that the customers like, no, because what do they know; they’re just voting with their money.

Insert ominous music here. THE JURY. A panel of our superiors passing judgment on those who will live and those who will die.

Even if the craftsmanship is impeccable, the theme must pass muster. As the jury has between 5-6 seconds (seconds, not minutes) to make their decision, they have been given a point system to use. They judge on a scale of 1-5 with no three’s allowed, which means when they see an image they either give it a one or a two or a four or a five. No middle ground, they either like it or hate it. At the end, those artists with the highest scores are in and those with the lowest…must I say it?

I have since learned that many themes are passé, such as dragonflies and hummingbirds. Juries loathe cute. If it’s popular, fogetaboutit.

The work must be evocative, but not provocative. Any religious imagery is out, for one member of the panel might be very religious and think the work is sacrilege, while another might be an atheist and find it offensive.

One cannot pull from pop culture like Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz or Marilyn Monroe for they’ve been done to death. Or say familiar like the Eiffel tower, for one juror might have been engaged near the iconic structure and smile with passion at the reminder while another might have been jilted by a lover in Paris and seethe with anger and take it out on the applicant stupid enough to use it.

The secret unknowable list goes on, topics that are permissible and more that are not. The photographs also have to be composed in such a way that the first image points to the right so that the juror’s eyes follow naturally to the next, while the last image must point up and to the left so their attention does not wander. In the 5 seconds!

Also, all components must be handmade; no more commercial parts such as earwires, jumprings, chain, charms and beads.

And the background. Phew! One must know what the color du jour is a la mode before hand. One season it was all white, but now, any artist who has their work photographed in white does themselves and the artist following them in the lineup a disservice. Why? Because in the dark, a white background is so bright, that the jurors eyes don’t have time to adjust before the next set of slides appear and even if the next artist has done everything exactly right, they may still get penalized on the basis of pupil dilation.

Another year it was all black. Now the trend seems to be a gradient from white to black or some such thing. How to learn all of this before forking out the cash?

Even after the collection, or body of work has been artfully and creatively thought out, photographed by the best in the biz, the images must then be sent to another enterprising fellow for professional cropping, Photoshop magic and layout. Then those images must be sent to another consultant on the east coast for his opinion as to their merit.

It’s all so bloody time consuming and expensive.

And so, to answer that innocent question, “Did you guys just show up here and set up your tent?”

We wish.

Awesome, Possum

You may or may not know this, but I have a numbers thing. I find comfort in alignment and feel a sense of calm when things add up. For example, since the odometer of the century turned over my age adds up to the current year. I’m 46, so 4 + 6 = 10. Last year, in 2009, I was 45; in 2008…I think you can do the math.

I was 43 while our country was operating under the influence of the 43rd President and I turned 44 when we elected our 44th Commander in Chief. There’s harmony in them there numbers.

And I’m also date oriented. Yesterday marked 30 years since Mt. St. Helens blew her top. There must be something about temperatures rising and guns during the month of May because 27 years ago today, the infamous Diane Downs shot her three children.

And, 12 years ago this week, Kip Kinkel went on a killing rampage known as the Thurston High School shooting. Same month, same year, Brynn Hartman shot her husband, actor and comedian Phil Hartman while he was sleeping and then turned the deadly gun on herself.

On a lighter note, today is also the 48th anniversary of Marilyn Monroe singing her oft imitated breathy rendition of “Happy Birthday Mr. President” to John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Okay, that’s enough of trivial pursuit. Whoops, I stand corrected; this entire blog is froth, little slices of life served on trifle crackers. Bon appétit!

Phew! What a whirlwind road trip. We were home from Medford for about a minute and a half before turning right around and heading north to Seattle for the University District Street Fair, otherwise known as U-District.

Intending to avoid the worst traffic both Portland and Seattle have to offer, we decided to begin our long weekend meeting up with Nanny Bee Bugg (our photographer friend), for lunch at an Indian restaurant. This way, we could toodle around Portland for the day and glide into Seattle after rush hour.

We chose this restaurant on purpose because they’ve been known to serve a particular dish that appeals to our darker humor. If you read last week’s entry, you’ll recall we stayed with friends in southern Oregon who adopted two goats that currently live in their house.

For some deep-seated Freudian mystery, each time we stay with them, we have this hankering to eat goat curry. Although admittedly, I would be insulted and appalled if, after friends stayed with us, they desired to try kitty cat curry.

Hypocrisy aside, we were disappointed to discover that the Indian restaurant did not have it for Thursday’s lunch buffet. Oh well, there’s always Seattle.

After vindaloo and rice pudding, Nanny Bee Bugg drove us to the Northwest Industrial section of the Rose City, introducing us to Macleay park, a forest within a metropolis. This stunning gulch of tall timbers was a gift to the City of Portland in 1897. Pine trees, ferns, a babbling brook and an abandoned stone building named “The Witch’s Castle” made for a delightful respite.

Caravanning across town, we meandered through antique stores in the Sellwood neighborhood and ordered coffee at The Blue Kangaroo. We were invited to select our own preference of beans they’ve roasted themselves. The barista then ground them and made us each a delicious cup of pour-over coffee. Strong and full-bodied, just the way we like it.

I often do my best photography with a cup of coffee in one hand and a camera in the other. As I’ve mentioned before, I do not study my subjects, but simply aim and shoot at whatever catches my attention in the blink of an eye. If they turn out, it’s the luck of the draw. Groom is patient, and his work is beautiful. My random way comes from an intuitive place and I’m often surprised later to discover what I’ve shot, as it all happens so quickly.

I could be called the Impatient photographer or the Promiscuous photographer. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. I meant that I take optimal advantage of the digital age and refuse to limit myself based on the old standard of finite film. I take the camera with me everywhere, wearing it like a favorite piece of clothing.

Back to window shopping in Sellwood. We wandered into a posh store celebrating its three week anniversary. That was weeks, not years. Heeding my father’s advice from childhood, I looked at the store’s inventory with my eyes not my hands until I spotted the fur blanket draped over a fainting couch. I had to touch it to see if it was real or faux. Flipping over the tag, it read, “Possum $1,200.” I yanked my hand away almost as quickly as if it had said skunk.

“Groom, you gotta see this,” I whispered loud enough for him to hear across the empty store. Curious to see what I found, he sauntered over. “Pet it,” I suggested.

“Oh, that’s soft,” he said.

“Yeah and it’s twelve hundred dollars worth of possum,” I say with all the flourish of a big reveal.

“Gross.”

The overly made-up clerk came to the possum’s defense. “It’s called eco-luxury.”

Now here’s where, in an alternate universe, I might have been able to keep my mouth shut, but in this reality, well, we all know that didn’t happen.

“Eco-luxury… is that fancy talk for road kill?”

The clerk did not care for my observation. Her way of showing disapproval, since she could neither smile or frown (I’m guessing Botox), was to ignore my question and instead, correct the way I said “Eco.” In my mouth, it came out sounding like echo, as in “eco-friendly.”

She hissed, “It’s eeeeeko-luxury.” Then, to make the road kill blanket appear more exotic, she emphasized the detail that the possums came all the way from New Zealand.

Groom didn’t miss a beat. “Even if they bought them their own seats on the flight over, that’s still a pretty good mark-up.”

Clerk glared at us. “Bet you’re sorry you let our kind in here,” I say, waving goodbye and wishing her a happy three-week anniversary.

And with that, it was just about time to bid our friend adieu and continue the drive to Seattle. Our late night arrival didn’t pan out exactly as we had imagined. Even at 10 o’clock at night, the traffic was bumper to bumper often to the point of standstill.

After we finally arrived and shlepped our belongings up two flights of stairs (no elevator), I was a wee tired. I started to brush my teeth and the experience woke me up with full alert precision. Groom says he’d never seen that particular expression on my face before. I loaded my toothbrush with shaving cream and went to town polishing my pearly off-whites.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking - What kind of idiot uses shaving cream to brush their teeth with? Are you imagining an aerosol can with a push-top lid? Me too, but noooo.

It’s my turn to ask the question. What kind of genius thinks it’s a good idea to package shaving cream and toothpaste in the exact same type of tube?? In my defense, it was late and I thought I had fished the shaving cream from my toiletries kit and set it on the edge of the tub out of reach. Oops.

Let me tell you, that is one disgusting flavor even if the label dubs it “mint.”

Our Friday in Seattle was perfection. Riding the bus downtown, we had all day to play, taking photos, shopping and being touristas.

Of course, we had to visit our favorite shop, the John Fluevog shoe store, and er, um, yes we each found a pair to take home. Near Pike’s Place Market, we tried an African restaurant and ordered, you guessed it, goat curry. Yucky! It was mostly all bones and what little meat there was tasted exactly what one might imagine goat to be like; fat, tough and gristly. The sponge bread was rather curious, though.

If you ever find yourself in Seattle and you like coffee, by all means, treat yourself to the Italiano hand-crafted by Roland at Ancient Grounds. Not only is it likely to be the best cup you’ll ever encounter west of the Tiber, but the scintillating conversation and fabulous collection of art will knock your socks off.

One of the oddities of the weekend was a display window for an eyeglasses shop. Hmmm, doesn’t sound quite right, but when I typed “eye glass shop” the word combination evoked images of a boutique specializing in glass eyes. Then, when I try “glasses shop,” that made me think of fragile drinking cups.

The macabre display was in a window for eyeglasses. Two full shelves of white doves (stuffed, plastic, felt?) lay on their sides with eye glasses positioned over them. At first glance I thought, “Uh-oh, the shopkeeper doesn’t realize the birds look dead. Maybe the birds couldn’t stay upright.” I voiced my concern and Groom says, “Uh, honey, lookey there.”

I follow his pointed index finger and sucked in my breath. With the arrows impaling the birds, I changed my mind. I came to the quick conclusion that the shopkeeper did indeed realize the birds looked dead. That’s Seattle for you.

We considered attending the Kurt Cobain and Andy Warhol exhibit at SAM (the Seattle Art Museum), but honestly? we didn’t feel like spending the $15 each for entrance tickets. We’ll probably kick ourselves later, but looking at the poster, I asked Groom if they dug up Cobain’s bones?

“Nah, that’s from an album cover,” he informed me, but the gruesome imagery, knowing he committed suicide, made me want to stay outside in the sunshine, smelling all the gorgeous flowers and nibbling on the chocolate pasta samples at the Farmer’s Market.

As for U-District, the street fair was pretty good, although it began quirky enough. Up at 5 o’clock, we were on site by 6am navigating the parking gauntlet. We unloaded our booth and accoutrements, parked, then spent the next two hours setting up. By this time, we were hungry and breakfast beckoned. Returning before 10am, we were greeted by a young woman with an official looking badge. She introduced herself and apologized for what she was about to impart. “I don’t know anything, except you might have to move your booth.”

What??

Looooong story short, after waiting a nail-biting amount of minutes, the fire marshal appeared and explained that the fire department needed access to the water source hidden behind our booth and a U.S. post box. Well, the post box was cemented and bolted down, so our booth was the issue. Um, but that was the 10’ X 10’ space the show told us to set up in, so now what? Having to move is NOT what an artist wants to hear 15 minutes before a show officially opens, especially when everything is already in place and getting it that way took two hours.

When we removed our “back door” (white tarp) and showed them that our fabric was attached with Velcro, the fire chief allowed us to stay with a warning; that if a fire broke out, the firemen would bust through our booth. I calculated the risk. If a fire broke out that close, then I probably wouldn’t be staying in it anyway, looking quickly for the nearest exit.

Unbeknownst to me, the same thing had happened to another vendor across the lane while we were at breakfast. She had been forced to move and the vendors were now waiting for us to return, anticipating how we might take the news. Apparently, this whole little drama was playing out around us and I had no inkling that I was being observed. Throughout the weekend, the vendors in our neighborhood introduced themselves one by one, telling me what I looked like from their perspective. Gulp.

All I can say is thank God I was in a good mood! I did not panic, yell, get aggravated, but as one candle maker described, “You were solid.” I think that’s a compliment? She imitated my body posture and mimicked my impassive expression. It was a queer feeling to learn that a number of people were watching for my reaction while I had no idea.

Other highlights included selling the Exlax necklace to a University of Washington Professor (Whoo hoo!), sipping Bubble Tea with tapioca balls from our favorite place, Oasis, and hanging out with my author friend (her book is rated second to Harry Potter by popularity).

We concluded the trip Sunday night with an overnighter at God’s Minion in Portland, sharing a lovely visit and good food and then driving home to Eugene on Monday.

Gee, think this is long enough? If you read it all the way through, congratulations. Hope you enjoy a few of our photos from the trip and we’ll see you next time.