I was at the bookstore with my daughter. A simple Saturday outing. In a corner, there was a long table crowded with children and teenagers trading Pokémon cards. There was an energy there: rules only they understood, invisible hierarchies, a language of their own. Each card held an imaginary power, each trade was a small negotiation of status—and, above all, that fundamental feeling: being in the game and belonging to a group where you actually matter.
At one point, watching the scene, I had a strange revelation. It was as if I weren't seeing children in front of me, but the juries and "research artists" from the latest residencies, biennials, and group exhibitions. The same feverishness, the same need for validation, the same ritual of belonging. In Pokémon, validation comes through cards. In art, it comes through diplomas, grant applications, and research projects that bring nothing visible to art itself—but confirm that you are in the right circle.And then I realized: I am not at their table.
They are trading cards; I am carrying a suitcase full of drawings and studies.While they negotiate curatorial "shinies," I find myself questioning whether my drawing is mature enough, whether it has the necessary consistency, whether it can stand alone or belongs to a series, whether it is a real drawing or just another attempt. All of this without any jury giving it permission to exist.
Art institutions have chosen the comfort of prolonged adolescence. Not out of malice—but out of fear. Maturity requires looking at a work and saying directly: this is good, this is not. To take responsibility for a judgment in the face of a real object, not a grant application file. It is safer to evaluate intentions than results. It is safer to play the game than to confront art itself.
I left the bookstore with my daughter happy—for her, it had been the best day. I was sincerely glad for that. As a father, I was happy to have been there. As an artist, I left with a single question in my head—not rhetorical, but real: do I have enough drawing paper for tomorrow?
