The Viewfinder in a Clear Frame of Mind

It is exceedingly difficult for me to unravel this topic on the monetization of art of any kind. Earning one's living by one's artwork has a dangerous way of draining the joy from life. Not always, but more often than not. The pressure is more than most people can bear. I'm not sure either that it is in fact all that desirable for salesman and artist to coexist--- though I do seek in myself for the two functions to find an honorable compromise. No small task. Understandably, we want a recipe for success or at least a list of necessary ingredients. I can only offer this most general observation for moving towards that general creative goal: that we enjoy where we are going, and how; wherever it is; whoever with, and how ever it ends. A living portrait of artistic integrity--- To this effect, I have written a few conversational vignettes, between an old and young artist.

* * *

"Baby, you can't let them know how fast you work."

I couldn't understand at first. It wasn't that I was proud. Just honest, I thought.

The painting took me 15 minutes.

"If they hear you can do it in 15 they'll expect it in 5. It's human psychology, to low ball."

Oh. I was disappointed. But ambitious. I cranked out three more.

It took me 15 minutes total.

"Good, babe. And it looks like three different artists. Bravo! now you're getting it."

That was part of the plan, in the design studio. Everything was made anonymously, signed with Studio Name, and we had spread the rumor about Associate Artists.

"Wow look at these, Constance!"

"Oh, Judith, my these are so different. Who made these dear? And where?"

"Thank you. Our Associates at the Studio."

"Oh, really, how many artists do you have with you?"

"...depends on the season. We have more in the Summer." Two. And sometimes just me. In the winter. Big, beautiful, tireless smile.

* * *

He lit his cigarette, and leaned back against the corner of the deck where the varnish was drying on our artwork. The first stars emerging above, and early gnats, everything a fresh wound for bandage.  A team effort, each week, start to finish, though each of us had areas in which we pulled more, and everything came together late on Fridays for early Saturday morn.

"You know you're the face, right? and I am... the patron, behind," he said, cracking a restrained grin, in nature with his reserve and humor.

"But we work together..."

"Of course."

"I prefer to work behind the scenes." And I know he did too.

"This is survival. The fittest don't pick their roles. They perfect them."

It seemed a large load to carry, several people on one back, but one I could see he was willing to carry, in turn. More than his fair share.

"I understand." I understood that he enjoyed his role as idea man. The title producer has an incongruous meaning.

"Nobody buys from a tired out white man. That is not a winning story."

"Story?"

"Baby, people don't buy things, for things. They buy the experience, the narrative thread that will elevate them in the eyes of their families or compatriots. The extra something."

"Like when people say, you have to have a gimmick?"

"Tsk. More than that. It needs to have an unquestionable truth. A happening."

"But Art is already....illusion... no?"

"Yes, that's what makes it so damnably difficult."

* * *

"Baby, we will never make it if we insist on the one-of-a-kind."

"But we have always rejected mass market." He shook his head. Time, time.

"A good idea is a good idea. One worthy of multiplying, by whatever mechanical means."

"That's a lot of pressure..."

"The good idea? yes, but if you're looking, eventually we might find it."

"And if we stop looking, we won't even know if it passes us by?"

"Exactly right. But we start small."

I wrap my arms around his neck and shoulders, "One corner of the sky?"

I can tell he's pleased, like a street performer busking an appreciative audience.

"Something we can put on a cup."