By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
By Marco Torres
Guests arriving for the 2008 Hunting Art Prize gala handed their car keys off to embarrassed-looking valets sporting red and green "artist" berets. As they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Decorative Center, a guy in a Roman soldier-style miniskirt blew a horn, while the toga-clad guy next to him unrolled a "scroll" and read aloud:
"Friends, Patrons, Countrymen, lend me your ears...come I to welcome you to the Hunting Art Prize by order of Caesar Pontius Maximus."
This is the third year the $50,000 Hunting Art Prize has been awarded in Texas, after 25 years in Britain. From the very first year here in Houston, the prize has generated talk, some positive and a lot negative. While giving 50 grand to an artist is about as much of a financial sacrifice for an oil company as buying a Chiclet from a street kid in Mexico is for the average tourist, $50,000 is enough to radically alter an artist's life. Hunting PLC could have spent the money gilding the toilet in the company jet, but they have kindly chosen to give it to support an artist. So why is it such a hot topic?
It's the way in which Hunting PLC is selecting the winner and presenting the award that has alternately amused, bemused and irritated the Texas art community.
The first year it was limited to Houston artists, and Francesca Fuchs won the money. She wore a smart-ass T-shirt by a British artist to the awards ceremony; it read "It's not easy being a famous artist." Irony is apparently not Hunting PLC's thing. The next year, artists were instructed to arrive at the event in business attire.
The prize is awarded based on an image of one work by the artist. The artwork must be two-dimensional and nonphotographic. This means the entries are mostly paintings. Any artist in Texas can apply — from Sunday bluebonnet painters to Whitney Biennial participants. And they do — hey, almost all of us have one painting somewhere, even if it's from a high-school art class 20 years ago. It's like the lottery, and the price of the ticket is a digital image of a painting. Two juries make the selections; this year the first one winnowed down the almost 900 entries to 128 finalists. The second jury picks the final winner. Unfortunately, with more than 100 finalists, a lot of crappy work makes it through, so being a "finalist" in the crowded field doesn't exactly feel like the honor it should.
The lucky 128 were required to pay for the crating and shipping of their own work. But one of them wasn't quite so lucky. After Joan Fabian paid for her work to be crated and shipped, she was disqualified — not by the jurors, as she was originally told, but apparently by someone on the Hunting Prize staff. She was informed it was because the work is too three-dimensional, but the prevailing theory is that it's because her work contains cutout letters that spell the word "WAR." Patterning on the letters makes them hard to read, and the word is easy to miss. No doubt someone finally figured it out when they opened the crate. There is a disclaimer on the entry Web site that states, "Any artwork that includes the use of bodily fluids, degradation of religion or government, and/or depiction of sexual acts or any other medium, presentation or topic objectionable to Hunting PLC will be automatically disqualified from the competition." But not reimbursing the artist for her expenses seems kinda mean and petty. (Some accounts list the number of finalists at 114, indicating others were cut in the ninth hour.)
Arriving guests got to meet "Caesar" in person after a stroll beneath a cardboard and Styrofoam Romanesque loggia draped with fake foliage leading up to the Decorative Center's lobby. Richard Hunting stood inside in a receiving line greeting the hundreds of attendees.
To the left of Hunting was a woman painted white and wearing a toga. She stood motionless, posed like classical statuary. To the right of Hunting was a real live artist making a painting! Sporting a beret, the artist, Anthony Butkovich (who has done illustrations for the Houston Press), was busily painting abstracted portraits of a model reclining on a chaise lounge in an evening gown and feather boa. As the artist was occupied, an assistant offered me his card. Apparently this gig was presented to Butkovich as a great promotional opportunity.
The event's promotional value was also touted to the 128 — er, 127, er, 114 — finalists for the prize. In addition to being coached on their wardrobe, artists were asked to stand next to their work to "to sell themselves and their artwork."
I haven't heard of artists actually selling work at these events, but maybe someone has. The art is awkwardly hung in hallways designated with names like "Michelangelo" or "Picasso." As far as I can tell, the artists just stand around feeling really uncomfortable while oil company executives walk around muttering things like "interesting." A collector heavily involved with artists remarked that she felt sorry for them, saying it was like "they were on display in a zoo."