Doing the Honors.

WE'RE ALWAYS GOING on and on about how the mass media gives short shrift to the so-called high arts and culture. Until now, our evidence of these sins has been largely anecdotal. Now along comes the National Arts Journalism Program with statistics culled by the scholars at Columbia University to support our worst imaginings.

It's true, folks. Compared to stories about film (oh, let's be crass -- movies and movie stars) and TV (and TV stars), coverage of dance, classical music and the visual arts you can -- well, stick in your eye.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, a word about the recent Kennedy Center Honors. Devised by the Center in 1986 to draw attention as much to itself as to achievements in the arts, it's always a terrific show, broadcast on NBC near Christmas. Gapers like me who attend, artfully disguised as journalists, have plenty to see and hear. There are gazillions of politicos and mega-celebs hanging about in formal attire. And it being Washington, you overhear lots of conversations in which people seem to be telling each other that they're the undersecretary to the assistant secretary in charge of budgetary management of developmental affairs.

But the real reason I was there was the first part of the evening, when Judith Jamison became, hands-down, the recipient of the classiest stage tribute of all. To honor Jamison--who watched with the other honorees from a box where they sat with the President and the First Lady--there was a five-minute film about her life and work, about how hard it is to be six feet tall and, as an African-American, to audition for ballet companies and never be chosen, about how Alvin Ailey discovered her and made her a megastar, about how she assumed leadership of the company after Ailey's death 10 years ago, and about how she has grown and nurtured the Alvin Ailey American Dance Company and school and has become a respected choreographer in her own right.

Then Dwana Adiaha Smallwood danced "Cry," the signature work that Ailey choreographed for Jamison and dedicated "to all black women everywhere, especially our mothers," the solo of pain and hope that made Jamison a star, that made the whole world want to dance with her. Then a group of young dancers from the Ailey school, all in those long ruffled white dresses, joined Smallwood in the piece. "I had no idea they were going to do that," Jamison, glowing, said when we talked at the dinner after the show. And the gala audience at the Opera House stood and cheered.

Jamison was also saluted by Bill Cosby, a fellow Philadelphian who, with his wife Camille, is a major Ailey company supporter. He arrived onstage with a "Revelations" umbrella and a funny, rambling disquisition on dance. And then he said: "In the beginning, there was gesture, and then there was choreography. Then someone who couldn't dance decided to become a critic." Everyone laughed. So did I. But ouch.

The critic, and by extension people who look at the arts for a living, who write about the arts out of love, can't even get a break on the one night of the year designed to honor the greatest names in the arts in America. (The other honorees were Jason Robards, Sean Connery, Stevie Wonder and Victor Borge. OK, so Connery is Scots. But he's much-loved here and he helps boost the ratings of TV watchers who will click onto NBC for James Bond but not for Judith Jamison. Which again makes my point. But let's get back to where I was ... where was I? Oh. The critic joke.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Cosby once sent a TV reviewer of my acquaintance a tin cup after he'd been mildly negative about The Bill Cosby Show. Sort of foretelling his future, you see, after he could no longer earn a living as a critic.

Well, at least Bill Cosby cares. (His comment-and most of his speech-was cut from the broadcast, presumably for time.) This is more than you can say about daily newspapers, which, according to the study, devote just seven per cent of their editorial space to arts and living. Out of that seven per cent figure, just 11 per cent is devoted to the performing arts. (Movies take up 24 per cent, the biggest chunk of the pie, and television 12 per cent.) From the report: "The visual arts, architecture, dance and radio receive only cursory attention."

This is based on a study of 15 newspapers across the U.S. for one month, October of 1998, analyzing 15,000 stories.

But charts, eloquently evidentiary though they are, aren't nearly as interesting as the accumulated stories from ground zero.

Heard the one about the editor who canceled the review of a major foreign dance company's U.S. debut because the paper had already run a feature story on the company? In other words, if you tell people enough about a company so that they'll either want to go to the show or be curious about hearing what the show was like if they don't get a chance to go, they're simply out of luck. Compare that to coverage of the major leagues: a game, on any given Sunday, might end up with a summary of the action, plus a columnist's analysis of the game, plus a profile of the key player on the winning team.

How about the arts editor whose suburban newspaper wanted her to work in its main office an hour outside of the city, even though the editor's staff was based in town, writing about performances attended in large part by readers from that very suburb?

Then there was the one about the arts and entertainment editor of a nationally respected newspaper in one of America's wealthiest demographic areas, and busiest dance communities, who practically spat as she said, "I don't want a dance critic!" She didn't hire one, either. And increasingly, when staff reviewers leave, their places are not being filled at all. Clearly, there is a Carabosse abroad in newsrooms around America, wheeling about in a swivel . chair and armed with a curse that afflicts those who have the gift of being able to. see a dance and write about it, of, perhaps, being able to call attention to the next Judith Jamison, the next "Cry."

It's fantastic that Jamison got her due, and that people who tuned in to see Sean Connery ended up being blown away by the magnificence of the Ailey company and its rising new generation.

And I know that Cosby was sort of kidding. And that facts are a more eloquent way to speak about short shrifts of many sorts than emotional tirades. So the next time I stoppeth one in ten, I'll bring along a pie chart. And a tin cup.