Why I’d Rather Eat a Potato Than Enter a Photo Contest

Take the Australian Institute of Professional Photographers (AIPP) as an example. I joined, imagining there’d be perks—maybe even a few insider benefits for members. But when it came to their annual selection of “best” images, I steered well clear. Why? Because their yearly showcase was an echo chamber—a closed circle reinforcing a narrow view of “quality” photography. The photos in the winners' gallery often looked like they’d been shot by the same person. Creativity, originality, something truly different? All drowned out by a relentless tide of conformity. Each image was polished to a clinical sheen, devoid of any spontaneity, any real spark.

One glance, and you’re left wondering if the entire industry hadn’t agreed to drink the same Kool-Aid. The organisation became a ‘closed shop,’ pandering to its own rigid standards, basking in its echo of approval. And ultimately, predictably, it went defunct—irrelevant, buried under the weight of its own ego.

This brings me to the root of my gripe: contest judges, art gallery curators, and the so-called experts whose narrow views shape the photographic narrative. Art, by nature, is subjective. But we’re asked to defer to the wisdom of a chosen few, as if their opinions are anything other than arbitrary preferences wrapped up in fancy language. Why should anyone accept the opinion of a handful of gatekeepers, whose tastes are as predictable as they are narrow?

Let’s talk about absurdity in photography for a moment. Kevin Abosch, an Irish photographer, sold a photo of a potato for over a million dollars. Yes, a potato. A single, forlorn, dimly-lit potato against a black background, with a price tag to make your jaw drop. Here are some gems from Abosch himself about this “masterpiece”:

“I see commonalities between humans and potatoes that speak to our relationship as individuals within a collective species.”

“The potato itself has become a sort of icon. It represents sustenance and the ability to sustain life.”

“I see the potato as a surrogate for the human experience. It’s a reminder that everything is fleeting, even what we think of as permanent or valuable.”

Reading this, I thought, I could do with a million dollars right now. Perhaps I, too, could photograph a subject laden with rich metaphorical depth—a symbol of endurance and decay, beauty and tragedy rolled into one. Unfortunately, I’d made chips for lunch, so there were no potatoes left to immortalise. And thus, my muse emerged: Teddy.

Behold, Teddy. An image so stark, so painfully raw, it threatens to reshape our understanding of art. Here, splayed upon the unforgiving bathroom tiles, lies a creature once loved, now rendered helpless, a victim of cruel fate. Torn asunder by the teeth of an overzealous Maltese-Shih Tzu mix, Teddy lies prostrate—symbolic, broken, alone. Where Abosch’s potato evoked sustenance, Teddy speaks of loss, of betrayal, of childhood memories savaged by time. Is this not the human condition laid bare?

Look at his limbs, twisted and torn, his once-pristine form now ragged and forlorn. The red ribbon around his neck, frayed and weary, bears silent witness to happier days, now forever out of reach. In his brutalised state, Teddy embodies a quiet, existential dread, evoking the struggles and scars we each carry. Does he not speak to us of our own fragility? Could we, too, one day find ourselves splayed on cold tiles, discarded, alone?"

Reflecting on the profound symbolism of my image, I explain: 'Teddy embodies the duality of existence—his torn fabric symbolises the tension between the infinite and the finite, the soft warmth of memory clashing with the cold brutality of reality. He is not merely plush; he is potentiality unravelled. The frayed ribbon whispers of tethered hopes and dreams, each thread a fragile bond to a time before loss. In Teddy's limp limbs, we find the anguish of a universe struggling against entropy, yet surrendering in a posture of eternal vulnerability.'

I present this image to you not in the hope of fame or fortune, but with a warning to the art world. Brace yourselves, for Teddy’s silent anguish will haunt you, reverberate within your soul, and compel you to question all that you know. As for me, I shall retreat, hiding from the inevitable throngs clamouring for a print, eager to add this icon of suffering to their collections. How could I, a humble photographer, bear the weight of this newfound fame? Perhaps, like Teddy, I, too, must endure alone.

And yet, as I sit here, clutching my lens and gazing upon poor Teddy, I can’t help but wonder if the world is ready. Ready to see beyond the conventions, beyond the forced smiles of contest judges and the blathering of “experts.” Ready, finally, to embrace art in its truest, most unvarnished form.

Ladies and gentlemen, the floor is open. The bidding begins at one million dollars.

Review by Alistair Braddock, for Galerie Avant-Garde

One must approach the artist’s Teddy with a mind unclouded, yet prepared to confront the sheer enormity of plush. This is no mere stuffed bear—no, Teddy is a vessel for all that is shattered within us, a fabric-bound echo of our deepest rifts. As the artist describes the "tension between the infinite and the finite," we, too, feel ourselves pulled into this silent struggle. The frayed ribbon, scarcely holding together this soft edifice of tragedy, trembles with whispered dreams, fragile bonds, faint traces of a life untouched by the ravages of time.

Observe, if you will, the limbs, limp yet somehow defiant, as if Teddy himself has resigned to entropy, and yet resists. The artist has captured not a bear, but a universe clawing at its own disintegration, an ode to vulnerability we can scarcely comprehend. Here, every stitch rebels against the inevitability of decay, every strand of fur a silent monument to all things lost and left behind.

Teddy is not an image; it is a reckoning, a plush oracle prostrate upon the floor, whose very essence defies understanding. And as I, Alistair Braddock, bear witness to this sublime tableau, I find myself grasping for words that elude me, as though they, too, are caught in Teddy’s quiet, terrible surrender to oblivion. It is a work that speaks not to the mind, but to the fragile stitching of our souls.