Professional Conferences and the American Visual Arts

Abstract

Katherine E. Manthorne Meetings and conferences: they have become fixtures of modern professional life. Contemporary fiction writers David Lodge, Malcolm Bradbury, and James Hynes make conferences the improbable setting for highly comical and deeply troubling stories. Sometimes we return from conventions greatly stimulated; other times we complain of being conferenced out.' We swear that we'll never attend another one. And yet next year we're right back again, name tags firmly affixed to our chests, throwing back plastic cups of bad white wine, and arguing the fine points of the papers presented. These events obviously stir deep responses. Given the central role that the annual conference plays in the life of an organization, it is little wonder that its members are so deeply invested in its success. We expect them to fulfill such a variety of needs: a pilgrimage site in a secular world, a rite of passage for newcomers to the field, an instrument of career advancement, an ego booster, an opportunity for travel and new contacts, and the testing ground for current research and publications. It seems worthwhile then to stop and consider the relation between conference opportunities and the study of American visual culture. Attending one's first professional conclave is one of those times in life indelibly inscribed-for better or for worse-in one's memory. I recall making the short pilgrimage from Morningside Heights to a midtown Manhattan hotel for my initiation into the College Art Association (hereafter CAA) annual conference. As a novice, I was very much an observer, seemingly invisible to the participants who rushed back and forth along the corridors between sessions or lingered after hours in the lobby, trying to catch some eyes and to avoid others. But in some ways the outsider status only added to the intensity of the experience. One paper struck me as more stimulating and wittily delivered than the next; attendees appeared so stylish and confident; and the legendary figures in the field were even more impressive than I had imagined. These recollections may sound more like those of a rock-star groupie than of a serious art historian, but colleagues assure me that-however much we may have tried to hide it-awe mixed with anxiety were the dominant emotions of this rite of passage. All too soon, however, that rosy glow fades. With the first academic post comes the pressure to publish and its corollary, to deliver papers at major conferences, and so they become first and foremost tools of job advancement. More savvy to the intellectual and social politics of our area of specialization, we analyze the program sessions more critically. We moan, we complain, we boycott meetings; we are now full-grown professionals, with different stakes in the field. This progression, it seems, represents the natural order of things.