When you meet the curator of an exhibition carrying a protective helmet and fluoro vest, it can only raise concerns about what you’re about to see. When that show is the Archibald Prize for portraiture, it’s tantamount to a red alert – although the curator, Beatrice Gralton, tried to assure me the protective gear related to another project altogether.
If it were that easy to be protected from the Archibald Prize, I’d race out and buy a helmet and a vest immediately. By now I’ve resigned myself to the idea that no barricade, no lucky charm, no vaccine can keep the annual scourge of the Archibald at bay. It comes along at the start of flu season and infects the entire nation. It’s at its most virulent within the first few days, before settling in for four weary months.
I’m going to concentrate on the portrait prize and leave the companion shows, the Wynne and Sulman for another day.
With the Archibald, it’s now traditional to say: “It’s the worst ever!”, but this is like saying “Lest we forget” on Anzac Day. It’s a timeless ritual, honoured by many.