August 7, 2010
Several years ago, I sold a large painting. Relieved that I didn’t have
to arrange transport (don’t drive), happy to afford some needed
expenses, and generally pleased with the unexpected sale (it was in an
artist-run space), something else kicked into the midst of this
euphoria. The client was actually on the Board of Directors. The mind,
the mind– it started: she’s buying it out of compensation for damage to
the work I don’t know about. She wants a favour and my painting is
leverage. (I knew she was involved in many organizations). This is a
whim. She’ll change her mind. What if she goes through with it and has
regrets? My work will just go into storage and languish in the
collective unconscious of forgotten possessions.
The cheque arrived in the mail along with a lovely note, describing the foyer location where the work now hung so that it was the first art seen upon entrance. A month later, I got a friendly letter of personal thanks for a small donation I made to her charity because despite all evidence to the contrary, I still could not believe there wasn’t a catch. The same day I cashed her cheque, I mailed a donation out of precaution, in case she had future considerations about me for memberships or volunteer work. I will never know if that action was justified. If it was– clever me; if not, how sad.
Is there some reflex that programs artists to doubt good fortune? Why is it so hard for some of us to truly accept a blessing when it finds us? Are we so accustomed and habituated to struggle and disappointment that should moments of reprieve and grace arrive, we are genuinely unable to appreciate them? Or is it just human nature to remember mostly, the bad and the negative? After all, it’s easier to subordinate a good experience because it weighs less heavily upon us.
No doubt, perils exist for naive, unsuspecting or inexperienced artists. It’s natural to become vigilant and circumspect out of self-preservation. Remember the internet scam with the diplomat from India eager to buy from every artist who had a website? If you Googled him, there was a legitimate person, replete with photo ID, personal history and a short description about his interest in art. Problem was, his wallet had been reported missing according to the RCMP. Then there was this odd practice new galleries adopted a few of years ago. For a fee, they were willing to retain your dossier and support materials. Lots of galleries do this for free! Imagine– a venue that doesn’t offer a show, but keeps, loses, ignores, or neglects to return your submission and SASE for a price. In all fairness– again, the stress that up till then, galleries did this without charge– the emphasis on a broad-based clientele who consulted these “files” on a regular basis, served as a thin attempt to convince the artist of a benefit without chicanery or fraud. Far be it from me to advocate that artists relinquish their guard. In business transactions, many of us have neither agents nor representatives to act on our behalf. This does force us to take care of ourselves. We will have to question and investigate a dubious opportunity, compare experiences– if only to mass warn other artists by email or public notice, when a “scam du jour” prowls for targets. Besides, no one converts from a mistrustful, anxious, cynic into Sunshine-Lollipops overnight (medication aside).
However, art is no different from any other potential in life to lose our innocence. When perpetual, long-term suspicion unknowingly becomes the default response– for some, it encroaches upon the pleasure of being an artist. We need to protect more than our chances of being taken advantage of by another, if scepticism and caution dominate our commercial dealings– even when justified. Something else must ensure that whatever soulful element compels us as artists, continues to survive and flourish. Eight years ago, I applied to several recommender galleries for Exhibition Assistance. All declined. I moaned about this to a sculptor friend who then asked if I’d ever received one of these grants before. The question stopped me dumb. I forgot– I’ve had six of them! To his credit, instead of muttering something like “what a princess,” my friend also paused when I sheepishly told him. Finally all he said was, “You’ve dipped too often from that well.” Now would be a good time to plead a case for gratitude. It is so underrated. Often, all it takes is a periodic review, of an overlooked evidence of gifts taken for granted, or regrettably, scorned. I’ve heard artists describe how they were so absorbed in their struggles, a little bit of luck became just that: meagre, insignificant, transient, and forgettable compared to the challenges of, and resources needed to be a professional artist. One painter actually found “crumbs” more of a distraction and stress, because of the hope and expectations they raised. Too much time and distance would often lapse between distributions. She had to ignore or dismiss them, just to get on with her work. I’m all for any harmless method that produces work. I admire those who measure both success and failure with equanimity, without undue influence from either. But sometimes, an artist just has to suck it up, admit and enjoy the validations received, whether they like to or not. We have a right to appreciate luck or a good result from our efforts. This entails doing math to literally, count the blessings when the tendency is to disparage them for being inadequate, or a wicked temptation towards false hope. So what if someone buys a big painting with the intent to later, solicit a donation of work towards a fund-raising auction in support of pediatric research? I’m an adult; I can dance with that. I’d probably agree to such an auction anyway, but I can also refuse (and feel like a dung beetle, but it is an option).
Gratitude helps to balance rote, defensive reflexes. It loosens the crick I got in my neck from trying to watch my back. Anything that puts heart back into my work will do. It doesn’t even have to be a conventional standard of recognition or acclaim such as a monetary gain, critical praise, or an invitation to a prestigious Biennale. Little things make a difference : being offered a ride to an out of town opening. Cadmium Red on sale so I still had money left for broccoli. Art books given to me from an estate. When I forage in my background, what another artist might consider “crumbs” reveals some of the most nourishing, thankful memories to date. Finding a subsidized place to live and paint in a beautiful neighbourhood. The part-time job that gives me an unexpected venue to show my work. A Christmas card from a shy woman who attended one of my shows. In it she writes that seeing my work made her want to paint and now she has a piece on display at the same gallery. The mailbox I painted with songbirds for a sick friend; the happiness she says it brings her every time she comes home from chemotherapy. Et cetera.
The cheque arrived in the mail along with a lovely note, describing the foyer location where the work now hung so that it was the first art seen upon entrance. A month later, I got a friendly letter of personal thanks for a small donation I made to her charity because despite all evidence to the contrary, I still could not believe there wasn’t a catch. The same day I cashed her cheque, I mailed a donation out of precaution, in case she had future considerations about me for memberships or volunteer work. I will never know if that action was justified. If it was– clever me; if not, how sad.
Is there some reflex that programs artists to doubt good fortune? Why is it so hard for some of us to truly accept a blessing when it finds us? Are we so accustomed and habituated to struggle and disappointment that should moments of reprieve and grace arrive, we are genuinely unable to appreciate them? Or is it just human nature to remember mostly, the bad and the negative? After all, it’s easier to subordinate a good experience because it weighs less heavily upon us.
No doubt, perils exist for naive, unsuspecting or inexperienced artists. It’s natural to become vigilant and circumspect out of self-preservation. Remember the internet scam with the diplomat from India eager to buy from every artist who had a website? If you Googled him, there was a legitimate person, replete with photo ID, personal history and a short description about his interest in art. Problem was, his wallet had been reported missing according to the RCMP. Then there was this odd practice new galleries adopted a few of years ago. For a fee, they were willing to retain your dossier and support materials. Lots of galleries do this for free! Imagine– a venue that doesn’t offer a show, but keeps, loses, ignores, or neglects to return your submission and SASE for a price. In all fairness– again, the stress that up till then, galleries did this without charge– the emphasis on a broad-based clientele who consulted these “files” on a regular basis, served as a thin attempt to convince the artist of a benefit without chicanery or fraud. Far be it from me to advocate that artists relinquish their guard. In business transactions, many of us have neither agents nor representatives to act on our behalf. This does force us to take care of ourselves. We will have to question and investigate a dubious opportunity, compare experiences– if only to mass warn other artists by email or public notice, when a “scam du jour” prowls for targets. Besides, no one converts from a mistrustful, anxious, cynic into Sunshine-Lollipops overnight (medication aside).
However, art is no different from any other potential in life to lose our innocence. When perpetual, long-term suspicion unknowingly becomes the default response– for some, it encroaches upon the pleasure of being an artist. We need to protect more than our chances of being taken advantage of by another, if scepticism and caution dominate our commercial dealings– even when justified. Something else must ensure that whatever soulful element compels us as artists, continues to survive and flourish. Eight years ago, I applied to several recommender galleries for Exhibition Assistance. All declined. I moaned about this to a sculptor friend who then asked if I’d ever received one of these grants before. The question stopped me dumb. I forgot– I’ve had six of them! To his credit, instead of muttering something like “what a princess,” my friend also paused when I sheepishly told him. Finally all he said was, “You’ve dipped too often from that well.” Now would be a good time to plead a case for gratitude. It is so underrated. Often, all it takes is a periodic review, of an overlooked evidence of gifts taken for granted, or regrettably, scorned. I’ve heard artists describe how they were so absorbed in their struggles, a little bit of luck became just that: meagre, insignificant, transient, and forgettable compared to the challenges of, and resources needed to be a professional artist. One painter actually found “crumbs” more of a distraction and stress, because of the hope and expectations they raised. Too much time and distance would often lapse between distributions. She had to ignore or dismiss them, just to get on with her work. I’m all for any harmless method that produces work. I admire those who measure both success and failure with equanimity, without undue influence from either. But sometimes, an artist just has to suck it up, admit and enjoy the validations received, whether they like to or not. We have a right to appreciate luck or a good result from our efforts. This entails doing math to literally, count the blessings when the tendency is to disparage them for being inadequate, or a wicked temptation towards false hope. So what if someone buys a big painting with the intent to later, solicit a donation of work towards a fund-raising auction in support of pediatric research? I’m an adult; I can dance with that. I’d probably agree to such an auction anyway, but I can also refuse (and feel like a dung beetle, but it is an option).
Gratitude helps to balance rote, defensive reflexes. It loosens the crick I got in my neck from trying to watch my back. Anything that puts heart back into my work will do. It doesn’t even have to be a conventional standard of recognition or acclaim such as a monetary gain, critical praise, or an invitation to a prestigious Biennale. Little things make a difference : being offered a ride to an out of town opening. Cadmium Red on sale so I still had money left for broccoli. Art books given to me from an estate. When I forage in my background, what another artist might consider “crumbs” reveals some of the most nourishing, thankful memories to date. Finding a subsidized place to live and paint in a beautiful neighbourhood. The part-time job that gives me an unexpected venue to show my work. A Christmas card from a shy woman who attended one of my shows. In it she writes that seeing my work made her want to paint and now she has a piece on display at the same gallery. The mailbox I painted with songbirds for a sick friend; the happiness she says it brings her every time she comes home from chemotherapy. Et cetera.
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