This doesn’t seen to be very original

Last week I travelled from my home in Belfast to London for the day to be interviewed as part of the short-listing process for an upcoming 'Best of 2009 Graduates' art exhibition. My flights weren't cheap and I had to miss a days work - I hadn't been given much notice by the gallery, but my boss was understanding. 'You have to be in it to win it.' Some artists are blessed with unfailing self confidence but I, unfortunately, am not one of them. I wasn't travelling with any illusions that this would definitely work out for me but I thought 'I'll just go to London. I'll speak to some nice people in a gallery and, no matter what the outcome of the interview, I'll have had a nice day.'

As I walked through the door of the gallery I was met by a life-sized model of Lady GaGa covered in sequins, some bits of broken dolls in glass cases, and a toilet made out of second hand books.  Welcome to a ‘contemporary’ art gallery.  I glanced down into my bag of carefully considered, sensitive prints and pieces of text that catalogue moments from everyday life that I have found significance and meaning in.  Moments carefully chosen as those concerning universally relatable issues; ageing, loss, family, love.  On a day last year that the newspapers showed hundreds of Afghan men weeping beside their trucks that were destroyed by the Taliban, I printed onto that newspaper page my uncle, a farmer who on that day also stood by his tractor and wept, reminded of the loss that he has known.  This is not the place for us, I fear.  But Lady GaGa is here and heard, and so shall I be.  After all, this gallery is familiar with my work, they’ve invited me here based on that, so perhaps they’re looking to mix things up.
I walk into the room with the interview panel and am immediately met by sneers.  On this day I have chosen to wear a floral dress and plain, blazer jacket.  Evidently this was this was not an ‘arty’ enough choice.  The panel themselves are sporting an interesting collection of tweed items, comedy moustaches, messy hair and glasses that clearly have no optical value.
Worse still - they do not introduce themselves to me. ‘Hello, I’m Hannah, nice to meet you’ gets me nothing but a few moments of silence and further sneers.  I’m sorry, I thought I was in Britain, where we are known for our manners?  We know to smile, to shake hands and say ‘how do you do?’ when we meet.  No?  OK, so on with the interview, where every question is an insult.
‘Tell me about your art practice, because this doesn’t seem very original, I feel like I’ve seen it all before.’
Really? Because I print my drawings and text onto newspaper stories of related issues - I have never seen that before.
‘Well do you just do that because its unique?’
I thought you just said it wasn’t unique?  No, I do it because they are everyday moments and newspapers are an everyday, relatable medium. The newspapers reinforce the idea of a shared history and they give the drawings a place in time.
‘To put your art up here would be pointless.  You want to make work that is accessible but the people you want to make it accessible to wont see it in an art gallery.’
Because… people outside of the art world shouldn’t come into art galleries?  That’s what I want - to see people feel welcome in these places.
‘Well you just don’t seem like a true artist.  You have a part-time job.  True artists work at it full time.’
Now I’m not sure if these people want to see me cry, that certainly what it feels like.  I can understand that they want to ensure their artists can withstand tough questioning but there is no need for this incessant rudeness.  And I’m not upset, I’m getting angry.  I want to shout at these people that the reason a lot of people will never enter and art gallery is because of them!  They are pretentious and condescending and unwelcoming.  I hate that this artistic stereotype can be found to be true - they’re giving the rest of us a bad name.  But I didn’t say it, because I do have manners.  I smiled politely, I told them it was nice to meet them, and I left.
Later that night as my plane touched down I felt the strongest sense of relief to be back in Belfast.  Belfast where our arts professionals have learned from politicians that asking tough questions in an aggressive manner wont get you very far - but treating people with respect will.  Belfast where every funded gallery in the Cathedral Quarter maintains a mixture of internationally successful artists along side community projects,  and every commercial gallery has a owner who will happily shake your hand and talk to you about the art work.  They might even make you a cup of tea.
On the drive back from the airport my romantic feelings about Belfast momentarily come into question as our car approaches a police check point.  A policeman shines a light into our car and declares ‘You’re OK.’
Actually, after a terrible day, I needed to hear that.
Thanks officer, you’re OK too.

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