Little chicken made big impression

I had no intention of buying a chicken.
But these things happen.
We’d gone down to Richmond to see the first weekend of the Richmond Art Museum’s annual regional juried show. The exhibit is something of a family tradition, dating back to the days in the late 1970s or early 1980s when my father was president of what was then the Richmond Art Association.
It’s always been a strong show, and we have some favorite pieces that we acquired there.
So what is a juried exhibit? It’s an opportunity for artists to subject themselves to possible humiliation and/or embarrassment, crushing their egos and undermining their self-confidence.
And — as if that were not enough — they usually have to pay an entry fee in order to take part in all that potential pain.
The idea is to have a representative showing of regional artists, with a special emphasis on quality. To get that quality, a juror is hired by the organization running the gallery. The money from the artists’ entry fees helps pay the fee for the juror.
The juror’s job is both tough and subjective. It’s the juror who decides what gets in the exhibit and what doesn’t make the cut. It’s the juror who sets the bar on what qualifies as quality and what does not.
In other words, it’s just about as popular a position as umpire at a little league baseball game. The only difference is that the artists’ parents aren’t yelling at you from the bleachers when you make your calls.
(I should mention that there’s a slight variation to a juried show. The Randolph County Art Association, for instance, accepts all submitted artwork for its juried show. The juror then decides which works receive awards, handing out prizes rather than acting as gatekeeper.)
Connie and I wanted to see this year’s Richmond show because of a few specific works. Our friend David Dale, a fine artist who has now returned to Delaware County, had two pieces in the show and one of them had received a special merit award.
So we set out in the late morning on a Saturday, planning to see the exhibit and get together with my sister, Louise, for lunch. It was a lovely fall day, a great day for a drive.
About the time we hit Deerfield, my wife’s phone chirped.
Our assumption was that it was one of our daughters, but instead it was a call — out of the blue — from Connie’s college roommate. Kathy had missed the 45th reunion and was reaching out now — while she walked her dog somewhere in Colorado — to reconnect.
Is it even necessary for me to mention that the call continued through Winchester, Lynn, Fountain City and into Richmond?
When we pulled up at the museum, the two were still laughing and talking and catching up. So I went in by myself.
There were two galleries of “advanced” work, paintings and sculptures by serious regional artists who have built reputations. Both of David’s pieces were prominently displayed and struck a chord with me.
Other works struck chords as well, and it was — as usual — a strong show.
But Connie was still out in the car, talking to Kath.
So I checked out the third part of the exhibit, the “amateur” section. These were works by avocational artists, but there was nothing amateur about them. The quality was high, and you could almost guess which artists were going to move on to the “advanced” level at some future show.
And then I saw it. A chicken. A rooster to be precise, with white feathers and a brilliant red comb. It was a small piece, but as far as I was concerned it out-shown every other work in the room.
I checked the program. The piece was affordable, and it was by an artist from Noblesville, someone who could probably use the vote of confidence and affirmation that would come from selling one of his paintings.
I asked museum staff members and volunteers about the piece, and they agreed with me that it was head and shoulders above the rest of the amateur work.
There was only one thing to do.
I walked back out to the parking lot. Connie and her old roommate Kath had shifted from a phone conversation to Facetime, but the laughter hadn’t died down.
“I think you need to see something,” I said. “I think I’m going to buy a chicken.”
And instead of plucking those feathers or grilling that meat, all I have to do is hang the picture on the wall.