The most obvious way to make juried shows valuable – and I'm thinking of my own experience as an artist—is to ask the judge(s) to write a cogent statement for the catalogue or wall text that introduces the show. I often hear and made the argument that one of the reasons why prints are such lowly citizens is that there aren't enough serious "apologies" written for them by critics and curators (or perhaps the apologies that do exist simply are not read?). Recent publications suggest that writers and publishers are more willing to consider the art made by independent artists, placing it tangentially with the "workshop print" (Susan Tallman's book in particular). Thus, one way to push it further is for sponsors to demand from their jurors some intelligent or useful remarks. Over the years, I rarely have seen such remarks in juried exhibition catalogues, but three different examples come to mind—first, a significant print artist commented that participants in the show he judged needed to learn how to present their work (I cannot remember who did this). John Canady once devoted his column in The New York Times to his experience judging the Appalachian Works On Paper exhibit.1 In the late-1980s (I think), a national living treasure, Roberta Waddell, took the time and trouble to write a significant short essay for a Philadelphia Print Club annual exhibition catalogue. In it, she cited individual works and grouped them according to themes and issues with current resonance. When I read it, I remember thinking, GOOD GRIEF, AT LAST! The first time I met Roberta, I gave her a huge hug and kiss and told her that if more curators/jurors took the initiative like her, prints would be much more a part of the critical mainstream. (I had hoped to try something like this for Bradley, but I did not receive slides of the works to enable me to accomplish this goal).

Naturally, not all exhibition sponsors have the lead time or the vision to publish an essay by the juror, and I'm pretty sure that Waddell was not paid extra for her good work in Philadelphia. Many of us would write anyway for the love of the game, so to speak, especially when the body of work submitted moves us to do so. On the other hand, we are often confronted with the conventional group of entries- as my former student and good friend Colin Frangos recently characterized them:

"A.) delicate but meaningless etchings/mezzotints that show a high level of craft; B.) woodcuts that are done in the style of either illuminated manuscripts or Dürer and counterpointed with contemporary images so as to contrast the wisdom of the ages with the metallic sheen of the modern world; C.) dungeons-and-dragons mystical knights and fairies etchings with some "psycheodaelic phahnta-sea" type title and horrifying Tolkensian accuracy; D.) type+photo of family member(s) showing knowledge of typography and use of contemporary, cutting edge advertising techniques in brilliant post-modern statement circa 1985 (bonus points for first generation immigrants); or E.) the smeary, brightly colored "painterly" monotype, demonstrating the wild and uncontrollable spirit and raw creative energy of those not tempered by talent or drive."

Furthermore, he asked, "Has there been a print show in the last decade that hasn't been built on these 5 basic stereotypes?". The answer may be almost frighteningly true!

Ultimately, juried exhibitions are great learning experiences for young artists and students who need to learn how to prepare, pack, ship, and display their work in public. And for those who simply must send one of the 100 impressions of the only print they did last year to thirty juried exhibitions, please give someone else a chance, and take a chance yourself—like trying for a one-person exhibition somewhere. The danger of a steady diet of juried exhibitions is that an artist may never take the path towards developing a large body of individual work to be shown together. It is in this sense that juried shows can be self-retarding.

As a juror, I am always edified by seeing what is out there. In making my selection I think equally about the artists who submitted and the sponsor. I want to put together a sound and handsome exhibition for the sponsoring institution, and I hope to give the public lots to look at and learn from. Of course, your best intentions can sometimes be so misconstrued that you want to give up. A few years ago, having written what I thought was a fair and relevant introduction for a catalogue in North Carolina, a local reporter who read it completely misrepresented my remarks in her review of the show, maliciously leading her readers to think that I only condescended to judge it because I "must enjoy the extra income these opportunities afford—especially considering the 'dreck' [I] had to look at," and implying that my words of encouragement were subtly veiled insults.
Ultimately, I look at the phenomenon of the juried exhibition less as a game, and more as a bond of trust between entrant, venue, and judge. It is true that one could create several different exhibits from any one group of objects. My mentors often told me after my many rejections, you either keep trying, or let go of it. In the end, your career will not be judged by the volume of juried exhibits in which you participate. It is far better to leave an honest trail of art, and, hope that a sensitive peer or elder will want to write a useful essay about it.

1. I believe this was in the 1970s, and it was a rare example of a major art writer making significant commentary about the art no one in the art centers sees. The article was called something like "Art in the Hinterlands," and it caused me to rush to my dictionary to look up that last word.