There’s a lot we agree on. Artists need money. There isn’t much artmoney in Milwaukee. The artmoney we do have is often controlled by people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing. I’d hoped these common causes were enough to band us together, but of course, artists are individualists by nature. It’s part of the reason why we’re so bad at making money.

The responses to the Prizeshare were all pretty unique, though they tend to fall roughly into two groups. The first are those who just don’t like the idea. To them, the notion of divvying up already limited money is counter-intuitive. We’re starving as it is, they reason, so why invite more people to the table? I’ve chased this prize for fifteen years, they say, so how can I give it up now, when I’m closer to winning than ever?

These are people who like the idea of a prize, and I can understand why. Winning feels great. The spotlight swings over to your place in the crowd, you climb up to the stage while everyone claps. Money aside, the validation alone is worth it. You know as well as I do, making a career is often a matter of scraping together enough attention and momentum to stand a foot taller than your friends. The art world loves to heap accolades onto one big pile.

The problem with this thinking is that it’s cynical. You shouldn’t play a rigged game, even if you think you might win. Don’t convince yourself that a single victory will make up for all those years of loss.

But I don’t need to lecture you. Because really, first-groupers, your mistake boils down to a simple math error. You’re imagining your slice of this cake (a bundt, if it matters) sitting before you on the table. You’re picturing me, with every other artist in the city, slinking up with our eyes on the plate.

“O-oh no,” you say, “Don’t even think about it. I worked twenty years for my bundt slice. And where have you been, for all my obscure and thankless toil?”

Something like that anyway. I’m not trying to put words in your mouth. The point I’m making is, this scene is all in your head. The bunt cake is real, but it hasn’t been cut yet. You’re only imagining your slice inside it. Artists, bless them, never fail to assume they’re a shoo-in. They know with absolute certainty that they’ll win every last thing they apply to, and then when they don’t, they put the fault on reality for not living up to their dreams. They do this, by the way, because they have to. Self-confidence is part of the job.

But, friends, can I gently suggest: What if you don’t win? What if you never win?

Here’s the mathematical feature I’d like to point out. There were 147 applicants for the last Nohl cycle, competing for a pot of $110,000. If the money was split evenly between them, they’d each have walked away with $750. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but consider the artist who has been rejected by the Nohl, for five, ten, fifteen years running. Do the math for yourself. How much would you have made by now?

But ultimately, the strongest argument against big slice advocates is also the most simple. Who wants to go to a party where only five guests get cake?

To those of you nodding smugly through the above paragraphs, let me remind you, you didn’t sign the dang thing either! Actually, I don’t blame you for not signing. I didn’t mean for the Prizeshare agreement to be a rough draft, but I do sometimes tend toward overconfidence. I thought I could bang it all out in two days, by myself. Clearly, it’s a group effort.

The second group, the small-slicers, are people who pride themselves on their commitment to democracy, equality, community. They’d like more than anything to sign the Prizeshare, if only Brad hadn’t done such a shoddy job writing it. They simply have a few questions, very reasonable ones. What if, for example, people apply in bad faith, just to earn some easy cash? What if certain demographic groups don’t have the same access? And what about taxes? And how is this being distributed? Shouldn’t we be doing this through a non-profit? Maybe Linda Marcus will give us some money? Have you asked her?

And really, they are reasonable questions. I’m teasing you a little, but not brushing you off. These are all worth serious consideration. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that you and I could sit down for coffee and rattle off reasonable questions all afternoon, or for the rest of our lives.

I agree that now is a good time for questions, so thank you for raising them. But can I be completely honest? I think you’re using your questions to distance yourselves from the problem. Applying to a prize like the Nohl takes time, energy, and confidence, and the longer you sit here listening to me, the less good you feel about applying. You want to consider the problem long enough to ease your conscious, then pass the ball back to me, and get on with your career.

Well, get on with it then.

To big and small slicers alike, please know I’m not trying to guilt you. I want you to apply to the Nohl. I want you to win, and really, I want you to keep all the money for yourself. The problem is, ‘you’ is a rhetorical device. I’m talking to hundreds of yous, most of whom are going to be depressed when the winners are announced.

Don’t stress. There’s no call to action here, other than to correct your math errors and pry yourself free from the comfortable sofa of reasonable questions. Do that, and we’ll revisit the Prizeshare again in a year or so.

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