I got a call out of the blue from the South African Society of Artists asking if I’d be prepared to be one of the judges to select work for their annual exhibition. Of course I would. I was to report to the Rondebosch Boys Prep school on Sunday 6th August at 9.00am sharp. After reading the email describing my duties and obligations, I put on my judge face and headed for the Mother City.

The SASA has been around for more than 100 years, so they’ve had a bit of time to work out how to judge a competition. Three seated judges on one end, five people opposite to record the judge’s marks, and fifteen volunteers to present the work to the judges. Upon our tables there was a revolving wheel to signal our chosen score for each work. Also on the table were two energy bars, some sweets, a notepad and pen, some tissues and a small bottle of Panado. And a small blanket. It was cold in the Rondebosch Boys school hall.

There were 250 paintings to look at. That’s a lot and in the beginning its hard to figure out what the parameters are. One is gauging the work but also monitoring oneself: am I being too mean here? Did I just give that person a 9 because I just gave three fives in a row? Did I give that painting an 8 because it has a cat lying on a carpet, and like cats? Why am I marking the watercolours so high? Is it because lately I can’t do a decent watercolour and clearly these amateurs are better than me? I have no idea what marks the other judges are giving. The work keeps coming and eventually I’m running on autopilot, which is a good thing because in these matters you just have to trust your instincts.

As it happens, I’m reading the memoirs of one A S Hartrick, a forgotten English painter of the late 1900s. He belonged to the International Society of Painters, Sculptors and Engravers. They got that great narcissist James Whistler in as President, of which he says ” The methods of Mussolini and the Fascists in a small way appear to have been tried out here thoroughly, long before we heard of them politically.” Indeed. Aesthetic matters are deeply subjective, and I’m wondering what the biases of the other two judges are, and if we’ll see eye to eye on what comes out on top.

After a home – baked lasagne for lunch, we got through to the final stage, where us judges were at last allowed to confer. The highly – marked work was up on the stage and now came the tricky final hierarchy bit.

It turns out to be easy. We quickly agreed on what was “commended,” “highly commended,” and which works were the winners in their categories. If the judges put their egos aside, a measure of objectivity is possible! I had feared that I may have needed a Panado or two after that relentless inward tide of work, but i left feeling uplifted. Not that far from us, there were taxi operators blocking roads and wielding AK47s. People are on the take, dying in the streets, putting the screws on each other in all sorts of ways. But here are the devoted painters voluntarily giving up their time in a collective effort to improve what they love to do