First Try Wins

“Congratulations,” he said, “But you didn’t really win.”

Lisa glanced over at the man bundled up in what looked to be two winter coats and a sweater. He was wearing thick glasses and a gray beanie. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and they were the only two people in the gallery reserved for displaying the winners of the museum of art’s weekly amateur painting and sculpture contest. Lisa’s painting titled “Denver in January” had come in first place, and she was featured prominently with the runners up placed on the adjacent walls. It was the first time she had ever won a contest like this, and it came with a lovely certificate, a month’s free admission to the museum, and a hundred dollars.

The man next to her appeared to be around her age. Then again, she was thirty and so many people seemed to look thirty when they were actually twenty. The younger generation was aging poorly, and Lisa secretly found glee in that. There had to be some kind of advantage in getting older, and if you were aging better than those younger than you, then that was something you could hold onto, especially in the art world, where youth seemed to be such a valuable commodity.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa said to the man in the beanie, remembering his insult, “What did you just say?”

The man took out a small notepad and held it up for Lisa to see. She saw a clump of scribbles. There may have been words or numbers in the scribble, but if there were, Lisa couldn’t make them out. She debated asking what it is she was meant to be looking at, but instead, she nodded as if she understood completely. The man seemed to sense that she was merely placating him, and so he explained the clump.

“This is a list of all the people who have won the amateur art contest for the past year,” he said, “Eighty-three percent of them were entering the contest for the first time.”

Now Lisa was beginning to understand. She had entered the museum of art’s contest after seeing that the “inspiration” for this week’s contest was “Winter.” Most of Lisa’s work was inspired by winter. It was her favorite time of year, and global warming seemed to be decimating it, which only spurred her to produce even more work that glorified the season. She reached back into her memories of snow days and blizzards to try and depict the beauty of a time period that so few seemed to miss.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Lisa said, even though she knew exactly what he was getting at, “But I find the insinuation to be quite rude.”

“It’s simple,” he said, believing, like most rude people do, that doubling down on the rudeness in an explanatory way will somehow make things better, “It costs twenty dollars to enter the contest. There are a few artists who enter that are really talented. Singular talents. One of them should be winning the contest every week with the others coming in second and third place. If that happened, hardly anyone else would enter, and the museum would lose a steady stream of income. So, they make sure new people are always winning, which gives others hope, and more people enter.”

“I see,” Lisa replied, beginning to engage in the argument she didn’t want to have, “So you’re saying I won so that it’ll look like anyone could win.”

“Well,” said the man, “It’s also that now you’re under the impression you can win, so you’ll keep entering, because you think you might be able to win again. They’re going to be getting their weekly twenty dollar entry fee from you for awhile now.”

Lisa ran her tongue over her teeth. Anyone who knew her knew that was a sign to run for the hills, but this man was a stranger. He had no idea that she was about to deflate him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sorry at all, “But how exactly do you know all this? Do you randomly take an interest in amateur contests at various museums and then begin studying who wins them?”

“No,” he said, “Just this one.”

“Why this one?”

“Because I’m one of the few talented artists who never seems to win.”

Now it was crystal clear. Lisa was dealing with a Bitter Bobby. He wasn’t the first she’d run into, and he wouldn’t be the last. In some ways, she could sympathize with him. Being an artist is often a struggle, and it can be tempting to take out that frustration on someone having a better day than you are. As they were talking, Lisa noticed an older woman approach them.

“Excuse me,” the older woman said, “Are you this week’s winning artist?”

“I am,” Lisa said, sending a side smirk the man’s way, “How did you know?”

“Oh,” she said, “I always come the first day the winning painting is on display, and usually the artist is here to see it. Congratulations. This was your first entry, wasn’t it? I see the little green star next to your painting.”

“Does that mean--”

“Yes,” the old woman said, “That’s the special star they give you letting people know you knocked it out of the park on your very first try.”

“Actually,” said the man, “It’s how they let prospective donors know they should play the lottery. It’s a symbol of false hope.”

Any compassion Lisa might have had disappeared. It was one thing to insult her privately, but to embarrass her in front of this woman was another thing entirely.

“Perhaps you should try to win,” she said, “Since you’re so confident that newer artists--”

“Oh,” the man interjected, “I have won. Five times, I believe. Five or six. That was when the contest first started and it was all based on merit. Once they saw that it could be a cash cow, I was out in the cold. I still, however, hold the record for most wins.”

With that, he put on a pair of giant headphones and made his way out of the gallery.

“My, my,” said the older woman, “Some people really do carry a lot of resentment, don’t they?”

Lisa was only half-listening to her. She had gone back to looking at her painting. She could see some mistakes around the bottom. Sloppiness that she only noticed after she had uploaded the image of it on the museum’s website. She had cursed herself for wasting twenty dollars, but then, when she found out she’d won, she assumed the judges hadn’t minded the smudges, or maybe they thought they were intentional. She also noticed the problems with color overlay on the right side. The placement of the moon was off. There were some technique issues and a few other things that were bothering her.

“Don’t worry, dear,” said the older woman, “That man comes here every week, and he’s always dressing down the artist. And it’s such a shame, because usually they’re just like you. A lot of first-time winners.”

Lisa found herself stuck at the bottom of the painting. Stuck where the mistakes were. Where it was undeniable.

“So many debut winners,” the old woman carried on, “Isn’t that nice? It’s always nice to see so many people getting lucky on their very first try.”