Art is Not Dead

I read another post today with the same message I’ve been hearing and reading lately: Art is dead.

It was written by another artist frustrated with the current situation with art shows and buyers.  I’ve heard the same message in different voices and permutations for a few years now. Art is dead. Destroyed. Sidelined. An unnecessary extravagance. Many artists won’t speak up because they fear losing opportunities to sell less to fewer people in the sanctioned, expensive, and entitled shows that are really not much more than a street fair.

Some say art is a “product”, some say because it’s a product, it’s dead. Some say art has degenerated into cheap, kitschy imported garbage that people surround at the fairs. It’s probably all true, but it still does not translate into the demise of art.

“Art is dead?”

Art is by no means dead. Art was happening in the caves in France when hairy armpits were all the rage simply by default and French fashion depended on what walked by the cave a couple of days earlier. Art was happening in the Dark Ages to celebrate religion and lead the masses to a better afterlife. Art was happening in Europe when tuberculosis and syphilis were more common than anyone knowing anyone else over age 45.

And not in just Europe. Art has been happening in every continent and in every society that has existed. The Mongols decorated their saddles. The Japanese were unrivaled in ceramics. In North America there were paintings on animal skins. Architecture in South America. Carvings in the arctic. Calligraphy in China. Drawings in India. African sculptures and tools. The American Southwest is full of art from and by aboriginal and Spanish influences.

In every society throughout history, there has been some smart-ass who saw something to draw or paint or make and did so. More importantly, there was an audience of people who saw the results and were impressed in some manner and either assimilated or ridiculed the art.

There was art in the Soviet Union. There was art in the concentration camps. There was art in the American South before, during, and after the civil rights upheavals in the 1950′s and 60′s. There’s art where the towers used to be. There’s art in that field in Pennsylvania. There’s art in South Africa and Ireland. There is art in the Middle East. I remember some of the homemade tattoos the kids did for each other when I worked in a psychiatric hospital with teens. One of the kids was really, really good at making the coolest little bunny and birdie sculptures.  (Don’t ask.)

Art is alive in many, many places much worse than where we as festival artists travel, exhibit, and sell. Some art is very good, some very bad. That’s what makes art, art.

What is the problem here? Some shows have determined that they can make a lot of money putting on shows. Great. But that’s not a problem.

The problem is they are not doing a very good job of picking artists, bringing in buyers, focusing on art, and making their fair share of the profits. Are all of them doing that? Absolutely not. Are most of them doing that? I really do not think so. I think it is a distinct minority of people behind a curtain that need to either work more effectively with artists – or go out of business. Darwin is king in the art world. The fittest survive, not the most connected.

Most – the majority of the art show committees and directors out there are hard-working and honest. Many are like deer in the headlights when it comes to art, but they are not evil or rotten. Even the “bad” and “greedy” promoters are just simply doing what they have been getting away with for years and they have no reason to alter a behavior that was not addressed or questioned before. Now they are pissed and they should be. We should have spoken up earlier – we are the artists and the patrons have been telling us what is wrong.

I am against a union for artists, because I do not think there are very many true artists out there and I think a union as a solution to the current issues facing show artists is a situation where the cure would be worse than the disease. I think most of the people in the art shows are not artists and are worse than the worst promoters – I do not want to unleash them onto our industry. No, the promoters need to do what they do and they need to do it more efficiently, openly, and effectively.

As far as the “artists” are concerned, I think they should either go get “day jobs” if they are simply functioning as merchants, importers, crafters, and posers. The people that matter – the art collectors, patrons and afficionados are the ones who should be weeding out this industry. They have been voting with their dollars for some time now. Artists know who they are. They have to look in the mirror each and every day and know they are an artist.

Either the shows will improve or they will die. Either the artists will get more savvy or they will be doing something else. But, there will always be artists. We’ll figure something out. We have the internet, we have an ability to sell our work anywhere we want in this country (because we don’t have unions or guilds) we have galleries, we have impromptu “outlaw” shows, we have free-will and choices and risk.

The shows do not have the power in the long run.

The artists do.

The most responsible thing a true artist can do is two-fold: become a better, smarter, more influential artist AND encourage the market – the patrons to determine where the art market is going to go. It’s really no different than the caves in France. No union, no show director, no critic, no chamber of commerce show, no government – nothing – will determine where art will go.

Quit bitching. They had art in concentration camps and gulags. We can make this work again in this country.

Art is not dead, it’s just waiting for the artists to wake up and be artists.

Learn more:  http://nationalartistsadvocacyinstitute.wordpress.com 

 —————-

 ”Acerbic Diatribes” now on Kindle on Amazon.com with 5 essays not available on the instudiowithjohnstillmunks site. $2.99 and it downloads in about a minute. Bring your Kindle to the next show and I’ll sign it for you!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007BNEPFA

“Not Everyone is an Artist” & “C’est La Vie”

Both of these essays are from earlier in 2011, (“Not Everyone is an Artist” was written and posted on a couple of other sites in August. “C’est La Vie” was written and posted as a follow-up in early November. I’m posting them both here together because they are basically parts 1 and 2. I hope you enjoy them.

 Not Everyone is an Artist

Would this painting be accepted into a juried art fair by a typical jury in 2011?

How about this one?

Would either one be accepted by a Zapp jury?

Probably not, based on what has been seen at the juried shows. Art is not always beautiful, and even more rarely “cute”, “clever”, “interesting”, “nifty”, or “matches what I have”.

The top painting is “Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” by the late Lucian Freud and the one below it, “Wilder” was created by Cy Twombly who also passed away recently.

Both were outstanding, incredible, professional artists – painters. They weren’t crafters. They weren’t vendors. They poured their souls onto their canvases and they avoided the limelight. Peter Max and Andy Warhol they were not. They focused on their art, their painting. The market responded.

Would these two artists be accepted by a “qualified jury” – even if their slides were formatted correctly at 1920×1920 pixels and showed a consistent body of work? Even if they made sure their booths were lighted professionally?

Again, probably not.

Would these painters be blacklisted by some arrogant art director who wouldn’t know a good painter if one died on his lawn? Would these two care? Did they care? Would they focus on selling cheap – worthless prints of their paintings at a street show?

Did these two focus their efforts on painting? Art? Fine art? Twombly taught a little bit and Freud’s life was a train wreck to be sure . . . but neither of them made crafty aprons to sell at an art show. Neither of them painted lightbulbs for $10 and said they were an artist. Neither of them ordered work from China – and certainly never sold it as their own.

Did Freud and Twombly receive their share of bad reviews and dialogue from lesser artists, critics, and some of the great unwashed? Absolutely. Does anyone remember who those critics or lesser artists were?

It does give one pause. Our standards are low when it comes to artists. People confuse someone with a good idea for a widget, a product, maybe a marketing angle, or perhaps a glimmer of creativity – with being an artist. Having an idea for something that will enhance someone’s life or provides a great and necessary service is a noble and admirable gift. Henry Ford had a great idea. So did Edison. Einstein. Researchers. Medicine. Engineering. Agriculture. Great thinkers – probably greater thinkers than many artists to be honest. Yes, we equate being an artist with someone that has or had a great, good, or fair idea that will make life better, easier, or will generate revenue, beauty, or awe.

But they are not artists.

Most people do not go to the art fairs and festivals to buy art. They go to see the ideas and the widgets. Some go to copy the ideas. Some go to critique. Some go for no reason at all – just a place to walk the dog or push Grandma in her chair. Some go to buy kitschy trinket jewelry or some piece of junk for their garden from a buy/sell charlatan or maybe some “original prints” from some mountebank.

Despite the lowered standards and diminished knowledge about fine art and genuine artists even in the art fair circuit – there are thankfully still people who understand and “get it” when it comes to art. They intuitively distinguish between a painting, a photograph, a sculpture, a monoprint, or a piece of pottery that touches their heart and soul – art that enhances their lives – and an imported birdhouse or a handmade puppet or even an apron. They can understand the passion and genius of Lucian Freud and Cy Twombly – even if they do not specifically remember hearing of them.

Those are the people I seek out at each show to meet because I am an artist – not an artisan, not a craftsperson, and not a “vendor” – an artist.

 ——————————————————-

 C’est La Vie

I had to run back into the house last Friday to get another tourniquet.

As I raced back out I passed the open laptop in the kitchen and saw about 20 messages with the name of this essay I had recently written in the subject line.

It appeared to me that someone had taken exception to something that I wrote about art fairs, juries, and the current art market at the shows and festivals.

The essay I wrote was entitled “Not Everyone is an Artist” and was posted on steinsalon.com along with some other sites under that title. The title on EmptyEasel was changed by a well-intentioned editor to “No, Not Everybody’s an Artist (despite what they may think).”

It is not my readers’ fault for appearing to not understand what I wrote, it is my fault for not writing it well enough. I am going to try to right my wrong and I beg forgiveness from my reader(s) for my demonstrated inability to communicate my thoughts effectively in my essay.

I began the essay with two arguably unpleasant images created by two recently deceased phenomenal painters. Any two artists could have been chosen, but the idea was to show two compositions by established artists that are rather difficult to appreciate. I chose work painted by people that are equally difficult to understand because they functioned on a level different than many of us currently are acquainted with in our work and experience.

My question to the readers was: Would these images be accepted by a Zapplication jury into a show? Does the fact that these two artists are accepted in the art world by learned critics, academia, colleagues, aficionados, writers, and most importantly, collectors and patrons, (i.e. buyers) matter? Is the fact that both of these artists lived tormented (albeit self-imposed but, difficult) lives—does it matter what they sacrificed in order to push the envelope further for painting itself—art for art’s sake?

These are difficult questions that rise to a whole different level when it comes to the current jury system for shows:

What if Freud or Twombly did not have professionally made images at 1920×1920 pixels saved as .jpg with RGB and no “hot spots”? What if they did not learn or hire someone who knew the system—shouldn’t an intelligent, art-savvy jury pool be able to know what they are seeing?

What if they did not have that “wow” factor in the booth shot? Isn’t the painting the “wow”? What if they don’t have a booth shot? Is a good retail display indicative of an artist—the final determination of what is and is not an artist? What if they use an EZ-Up instead of a Trimline? Propanels instead of mesh walls? The display matters more than the work, the art itself?

What if six months before the show their paintings are judged by a panel of experts and/or a promoter/director as just simply not good enough for a show vis-a-vis very nice technical paintings that would look just fabulous in someone’s kitchen or perhaps fourteen booths of $20 yard art assembled from found objects by any number of back yard tinker-ers who managed to each get a hold of an acetylene torch without burning their houses down?

How about if their work was rejected in favor of a potter with a really well-worn set of molds that “people come to the show just to see” every year after year after year after year?

These are important questions. Would Lucian Freud be juried out of an art show in favor of imported copies from China? Would Cy Twombly lose a spot to a buy/sell operator or importer?

Maybe more importantly, I asked—“Would they care?” Do artists care about the current art fair situation with vanilla booths, stamped out displays, and standardized shows with fewer and fewer sales, less and less interest by patrons, and more and more distractions like stilt-walkers, fireworks, carnival food booths, and corporate booths hawking everything from dog treats to window treatments?

Should an artist even apply to be part of what the art shows have become? At anywhere between $25-$50 for a “Jury Fee”—a non-refundable fee charged by shows just to apply—and booth fees anywhere between about $250-$850 if accepted, I would certainly want to know who else is in the show – artists or craftspeople? This is especially important if travel and hotel expenses are involved because that all keeps the meter running.

Is my neighbor at the show going to be a sculptor who can turn a piece of exotic wood into jaw-dropping sea grass sculpture that not only appears to be dancing underwater, but is dancing underwater, or a salesman hawking some wooden puzzles with fancy veneers and mother-of-pearl insets made by some studio in upstate New York as his own work, his own vision, his own artistic expression? Maybe it doesn’t matter, because the people coming to the show buy not only his “product” but his line of bull as well.

No.

It matters. These questions are more important to artists than whether or not someone feels slighted or offended by an essay. In my first piece, I asked if everyone gets to be an artist—if everyone is an artist. The question was roundabout, rhetorical, and answered in the essay itself when I cited examples of non-artists exhibiting their wares at the art fairs and festivals.

It’s all too easy to call oneself or someone else an “artist” in our current society. For so many years in human history being an artist was one step laterally and literally from being homeless and decrepit. It rarely, if ever, rose above that level. Now, to call someone an artist is often synonymous with being called a “master” or “wizard” or an “expert.”

Is an artist actually an “expert”?

Hardly.

Frank Zappa said something to the effect of: “being an artist means making something out of nothing and selling it.” But it means much more and always has—Freud and Twombly were two examples I used.

An artist takes something out of his or her heart and soul and places it on that page, canvas, song, or whatever. Technique may or may not play a part in the expression of an artist. Many artists throughout history had a horribly difficult time understanding or accepting what it means to be an artist—the ups, downs, benefits, and sacrifices—often with dire consequences.

Anyone can be taught technique. There are many more technical writers, painters, sculptors, singers, actors, photographers, artisans, craftsmen, etc. than artists—there always will be. Similarly, there will always be a place in the market for imported prints, painted lightbulbs, crafted aprons, puppets, and various/sundry craft items. These are honest and noble ways for merchants, craftsmen, and honest business people to earn a living. But it does not mean they are artists.

A person cannot be taught to be an artist. Not everyone is an artist. An artist takes the camera, brush, voice or pen to an entirely different level—not always a better level from an esthetic perspective, but a unique place . . . . a place only Cy Twombly or Lucian Freud could take us for example.

Not everyone is an artist.

Is there a place for artists in the art shows as they have devolved? Will the less-than-pleasing esthetic be allowed into the show under the current system in favor of “what sells best is best” or “whoever sells it best is best” mentality?

How many Freud’s and Twombly’s are being juried out in favor of a “product” that might sell well at the show? What is the jury’s role in an art fair and are they competent, capable, and willing to do it?

I maintained in my first essay there are people in the market that know art when they see it. Somehow, some way—the artists and the patrons manage to get together. If we are going to call them art shows, how can we encouraged more artists and patrons to participate?

Or should we call the art shows something else so we can understand the difference between artist and artisan in terms what is available for the patrons at an art show or festival?

Until some answers start becoming apparent, I believe there is but one constant in the world of art: not everyone is an artist.

C’est la vie.

JohnStillmunks.com

January

I stay away when the people in my family get the Christmas stuff out.

Over the years my kids have put the tree up and I have learned to ignore the obviously wrong places where they put everything. It keeps harmony in the house to just let it go. Typically, I’ll just enjoy the tree throughout the Christmas season and well beyond. Everyone wants to get the tree up in December faster than a bat out of the very bowels of hell itself. In hours, the house goes from a normal midwestern home to a winter damn wonderland that will give Rudolph himself Type II just looking at it.

But then after Christmas, the tree doesn’t go away. “We have to leave the tree up until Three Kings’ Day.” is what I hear week after New Year’s from the Chosen One and our children. Yep. I don’t know when that started, because we don’t celebrate Three Kings’ Day. I don’t think St. Joseph even celebrated Three Kings’ Day. He was probably tired of all the Christmas decorations and wanted to get on with life, but noooooo. He had to wait for the 3 Wise Guys to show up with more stuff. I used to point out that I appreciated the house doesn’t usually look like the inside of one of those raided trailer homes on “Cops”, but I just want my house back and I want the Santa coffee cups put away. People talk you know.

I know, I know. I could do it myself. But why? I have two very able-bodied children who can set up a Merry Christmas theme park in one afternoon in early, very early December. They should be able to pack up all the goodness and goodwill and merry gentlemen in at least a week’s time and put it back under the stairs where it all belongs – or at least send it to North Korea or Iran.

This year the oldest went back to college in Chicago and the youngest was off at basketball practice. The Christmas tree laughed at me as I walked past it today – one day after Three Kings’ Day – which we incidentally did not celebrate. Luckily it’s an artificial tree or it would have burnt the house down as soon as the furnace turned on this late in the season. We also have one of those little talking trees that has eyes that pop open and sings a Christmas song when you walk past it. I took another sip of my coffee out of my Santa mug and made an executive decision. The singing tree started singing and I backhanded it toward the little Santa figure that is always looking in a little refrigerator with his ass sticking out and shaking as he wonders where all his “cookies went to . . . ho, ho, ho.”. The little tree took him out and they both spun around on the wood floor with Santa lamenting his cookies and the tree singing Christmas carols.

I propped open the front door, pushed the storm door and held it open with a chair – then I went over and got the Christmas tree. It was heavy with all the Christmas joy hanging on it, but I managed to wrestle it to the front porch and pushed it off the top step. It was then a matter of just grabbing the top and pulling it across the yard to the curb. It was still pretty heavy and the top of the damn thing came off in my hands – complete with the angel topper. I decided to grab the next section and crouched down low to get a better angle. I closed my eyes to anticipate the resistance the tree would offer, but it moved easily. I opened my eyes and saw Nanna had picked up the tree stand so it wouldn’t anchor into the lawn. She was straining with the weight and I was worried she would hurt herself. She’s old as sin itself and not getting any younger. She was struggling under the Elmer Fudd style hunting hat we got her for Christmas and I suggested we set it down. She dropped her end, cursed at it and whipped out her Glock to point right in the middle of the tree.

“Nanna, do not shoot the tree!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on the other side.”

“Oh.”

We decided what we needed was a third hand to keep the tree stand off the ground and then we could both lift the tree itself. I went in and got “Ralphie”. He’s out new little Tibetan Terrier we got about 2 months ago. He spends the days in the studio with me and is all of about 8lbs, but he’s got a great attitude. He’s a terrier mix and just doesn’t know how to give up at anything. I put a reindeer-antler-dog-hat-thing on Ralphie, did a shot of schnapps with Nanna from her winter flask, and we set to work. Ralphie did his part, but it was too heavy for him to go much more than a foot or so. Nanna ran back in and got Bill, our cat – put a reindeer antler-dog-hat thing on him and harnassed them both to the tree stand like a couple of Santa’s reindeer and we set off again. We had a little trouble getting over the garden fence, but we eventually made it all the way to the sidewalk. We counted to three before throwing the tree and ornaments and angels and garland and lights and everything else onto the street next to the curb. Some of the Christmas balls popped as they hit the concrete and Nanna drew her Glock again. I quickly suggested another schnapps and she holstered up to get out her flask.

I adjusted her Elmer Fudd hat for her and we did a couple more shots out by the street as we watched the decorations glimmer in the street light. I asked Bill and Ralphie to pick up any straggling decorations and Nanna offered me a Cuban cigar.

“Fidels! Nanna, where’d you get these? I thought you and Fidel were through?”

“Oh we are. Have been for years. I don’t take his calls. He’s all, ‘I’m sorry this and I’m sorry that’.”

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

“I have an acquaintance at the TSA.” she said as she lit mine with a blue-tip match and then turned the flame to her cigar.”.

We stood in the winter air and surveyed the street. The neighbors kept looking out the windows all up and down the block. Light from within their homes strobed on and off each time they pulled their curtains back and forth to look at us and then quickly hiding.

“Did you vote in the caucus the other night Nanna?” I asked through clenched teeth and a billowing cloud of exquisitely nauseating cigar smoke.

Her arms were crossed and she held her cigar so the smoke would waft just underneath the brim and ear flaps of her hunting hat. “What the hell for?” she said.

“Aren’t you a registered Republican?” I asked.

“Well, yes. But they all suck.” she said.

She added: “All the people in this damn country and that bunch of clowns is the best we can come up with?”

I nodded.

“J. Edgar would have had them all pistol-whipped for even running.” She took a big drag and blew smoke rings out to the street. “Did you?”.

“Did I what?”

“Did you vote at one of those stupid caucuses?”

“No, I don’t belong to either party.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be part of any group that will have someone like me as a member.”

Nanna smiled and took another drag – “I remember when I said that to Groucho.” she said.

I knocked the cherry out of my cigar and gave it back to her. “Keep this Nanna, I’m one drag away from a pack a day – I can’t be doing this stuff.”

She took the cigar and put it in her coat pocket. “How did you quit smoking anyway – hypnotist?”

I shook my head.

“Opium.” I said.

She nodded and puffed her cigar. “Who won the Iowa caucus anyway?”

“Who knows?”

“Who cares?”

“What do you mean Nanna?”

“All of them are completely out of touch and have no clue whatsoever – I mean that in a nice way.”

“Yep, who cares is right.”

“Maybe something good will happen this year.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“I suppose.”

“Happy New Year, Nanna.”

“Well thank goodness for the TSA though.”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t get much worse, can it Nanna?”

“Oh, yeah. It can get worse.”

“I suppose..”

. . . . and so the scene pulls back to view a middle-aged artist drinking schnapps with his heat-packing, mildly psychotic, cigar-smoking Nanna in her Elmer Fudd hat with earflaps while his small dog and cat wearing those reindeer-antler-dog things stare at a decorated Christmas tree lying in the street on a cold January night under a streetlight in Des Moines . . . .

“Let’s mail this thing to Iran.”

JohnStillmunks.com

Happy New Year

This post is going out a few hours ahead of the email campaign wishing everyone a happy new year – many people are subscribed to this blog, but I have no idea who may or may not be subscribers. I just wanted to wish you all a great new year. It would be nice to have one for a change!

You are invited to go to the gallery site and sign up for emails from the gallery here if you want. If you prefer not to, that’s fine – but I then I might write about you………..

Merry Christmas

Yahweh Yireh

I stood by the car door and watched my old landlord struggle with his burden across the street. It was still raining and the Christmas lights strung up on the businesses reflected on the puddles as he pulled the bag toward the parking lot. The bag had torn a bit from being dragged on the concrete and a plume of crimson trailed out as he worked his way down the sidewalk. The little red trail diluted in the rain with each pull as he coaxed it along in the pre-dawn minutes.

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him. Usually around Christmas it’s snowing and miserable here. 50 degrees and rain at 5:30 am is a nice break.

“Getting rid of another one?”

Traffic was light on the street, so I didn’t have to shout very loud to be heard over the soft rain.

He stopped and looked around. Then he squinted and looked across the street. Still not recognizing me, he took off his glasses and wiped them with his scarf.

“Who’s that?”

“I thought you were done with that stuff since you retired.”

He put his glasses back on and squinted down his nose toward me. He pulled his upper lip back and made a face like he just took a bite of rancid asparagus. Then he finally figured out who I was.

“WHOTHEHELLAREYOUTOBETHEHELLOUTOFMEYOUNOGOODDIRTYROTTENSUMBITCHWHYDONTCHAJUSTGETTHEHELL
HELLOUTAHEREANDJUSTLEAVEMEALONENOONEISBOTHERINGYOUYOUBASTARDWHYDONCHAMINDYOUROWNBUSINESSFOR
CHRISTSAKEANDLEAVEMEALONEIDONTHAVETIMETODEALWITHYOUIGOTTAFINISHWITHTHISBASTARDANDFINISHPUT
TINGUPCHRISTMASDECORATIONSNOWGETTHEHELLOUTAHEREYOUYOUNOGODDDIRTYROTTENGODDAMSUMBITCH
BEFOREIGIVE. . .”

I waved him off, “Merry Christmas” I said as I got into the car.

“MERRYCHRISTMASYOURASSYOUASSH. . .” I heard as I shut the Volvo door. I looked through the window and waved at him as he now silently kept chewing me out and pulled too hard on the black plastic bag. The bag ripped and the body rolled out to lie flat on the sidewalk. He was screaming and waving his arms in the early morning light as I pulled away and popped a cd into the player. The Volvo has been a pretty good car for us. Sure, it’s more expensive to fix when things break, but it rarely breaks.

Over the years, I have learned to appreciate imports that are better than what we can get domestically. I think I first learned it in high school – on my first day. John Keenan was my first homeroom teacher in 9th grade. The school I went to was fairly prestigious and has a remarkable history. Mr. Keenan was it’s biggest advocate over the years. He was a short, intense Irishman who expected excellence and would not accept anything less. He was working with an electronic calculator (back then they were incredibly expensive and probably still in “beta”) and the instrument was not working properly. He was trying to help a student understand his grades from the previous semester and they were looking at average scores. The calculator was not cooperative. He walked it over to the round metal trash can in front of where I was sitting and slam-dunked the entire thing into the empty receptacle. He looked at me and admonished me to never by anything American. “It’s crap, all cheap crap. We don’t make anything worth a damn anymore.” Well, it was 1976. People were driving Vega’s, Pinto’s, and my favorite – Gremlins.

At the time he was right. I learned a lot from him and people like him over the years.

He, and many of the other teachers I knew at that school as well as at the colleges I attended had a mindset in common. “Work hard and you will be successful.” The ones that advocated this philosophy backed up what they said in the courses at grading time. I learned that if I worked hard in the class, I would earn a good grade – and I usually did. When I didn’t work hard in the class, I never earned a grade worth mentioning. We didn’t get participation medals.

Ben Franklin is credited with saying something to the effect of: “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”. I had no reason to believe otherwise because it was all reinforced with good grades, I believed what I learned in school until I entered the real working and business world – especially as an entrepreneur. My fancy high school and my college “book learning” didn’t prepare me for the reality of the workplace. It didn’t prepare me for union rules and certainly not for ex-communist Euro-trash supervisors, backstabbers, manipulators, or even dealing with the public in general. I did not realize that most people foolishly or blindly take the easiest route rather than looking at the long-term consequences of their decisions.

Most, but not all.

Sometimes the damnedest things happen. A painting sells off the wall, a call or an email come out of nowhere. A project comes together. A lucky break happens. A plan falls into place against all odds. A dog gets adopted from a shelter. A ten dollar bill is laying on the sidewalk . . . .

Being a good German-Irish Catholic, I had no explanation for this phenomenon because all that people like me know really well is schadenfreude and revenge. Admirable and handy traits to be sure, but how to explain “the harder I work, the luckier I get” thing?

When I fail at something or if something unsavory happens, I can usually point to some mistake or error – usually on my part. If that doesn’t work, then there is usually some scientific reason – bad timing, poor planning, a flawed hypothesis, or just lousy protoplasm.

It’s in our collective history. It happens to everyone. Any religion, any sect. Atheist or not. Sometimes if we just work hard, work smart, and stay focused – the answer is outside of our influence. Sometimes the answer is “no” and sometimes “yes”.

I recently learned an old Jewish saying: “Yahweh Yireh”. I understand that literally it means “God will see to it.”. It apparently started way back in the day with Abraham and explains what is really outside of our control.

“Yahweh Yireh” seems especially appropriate if not poignant at this Christmas time. It’s a nice Christmas present. Times are tough. Life is a bitch and it apparently is supposed to be. Don’t “occupy” anything – work hard, work smart, and notice the gifts. Use stronger trash bags too.

It’ll get better for artists like you and me.

Yahweh Yireh and Merry Christmas.

 

JohnStillmunks.com

All Yours, Detroit

Christmas was over and we were back in school in 1972. I was in the fifth grade (I was in a mixed 5th-6th grade class with a really, really remarkable teacher, Robert Good.) He brought a copy of the Sports Illustrated that covered the bowl games earlier that January. We all surrounded it while one of the sixth-graders did the page turning. Everyone else told him how to do it. I think Mr. Good wanted to keep us busy on our own for a while that day.

“Come on dumbass, just turn the page.”

“Bite me.”

“Let me see the front cover.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Bitch.”

“Your mom’s a bitch.”

. . . and so on.

Almost a dozen kids crowded around a magazine whispering curses at each other like a bunch of drunk stockyard workers without taking their eyes off the writing and the pictures. The teacher either did not hear or chose to ignore our banter.

The front cover was a picture of our beloved Huskers celebrating their second consecutive championship and inside was a picture of Johnny Rodgers returning a kick off – remember, this was Omaha, Nebraska in the winter of 1972 – all we had was the Huskers. Sports Illustrated itself didn’t even start the swimsuit issues until later in the decade, which raised our interest in the magazine to a completely different level in 1979.

Every dumbass in our school – even the 4th graders – knew the Huskers were all we had. There were no professional sports, no theater, no decent weather, no anything in Nebraska in 1972 that a 5th grade kid cared about besides the college football team. Every kid in the school also knew that Sports Illustrated had a problem with the Nebraska Cornhuskers in 1972. There wasn’t a writer on the Sports Illustrated staff that would give Nebraska a break in their columns. We knew Michigan and Ohio State and the others in the Big Ten were good, but the Huskers were in the Big 8 and we knew we would never play those old school powerhouses. We figured it didn’t matter in 1972 because we had Oklahoma to contend with.

To think that teams would leave their conferences was unspeakable in 1972. Who would have thought Nebraska would ever join the Big Ten? Sports Illustrated ate some crow that year as well. Their headline was “All Yours, Nebraska”. And it was. It was “All Yours, Nebraska” and a pathetic “flyover” state was the national champion in collegiate football. There was a palpable sense of pride everywhere in Nebraska. Many teams wanted that championship, many writers wanted other teams to have the honor of being the champion, but it came down to a team of college kids in Nebraska to ring the bell.

I drove past Ann Arbor, MI on my way to an art show in Royal Oak, MI last weekend. As I went past Ann Arbor, I wondered just how hard some kid in the fifth grade in 1972 Nebraska would get pounded if he predicted the Huskers would leave their conference and join the Big Ten. It was unfathomable back then, but here we are now. Part of the Big Ten, a league of powerhouses that control their own destiny every year.

I drove through Detroit on my way to the hotel because I wanted to see it. Detroit is a sobering visual experience. I travel to many cities to do art shows and Detroit is still an eye-opener to me. The art fair is held in Royal Oak, an affluent suburb that recently took over as the host city for the latest reprise of “Arts, Beats, and Eats”. The art show is held within an orgy of art, music, a ton of corporate tents selling everything from beer to windows, and samples of menu items from various restaurants in the area.

During this recession I have learned that just as during the Great Depression, there are still people with the means and motivation to purchase art for their homes and businesses. If nothing else, when times get tough – it is an excellent way for the herd to get thinned. Whether the herd is cars, furniture, art, drugs, whatever – it does not matter, recessions and depressions are great equalizers just as much as the boom times. As I child of the Ford and Carter years, my biggest fear as an artist is not a recession. It’s a 1970′s style stagnation of an economy that will destroy small business in the long run. I knew times are tough in Michigan, especially Detroit. I also knew my work would do fine among the population that has always enjoyed my work.

The show itself had some issues that hurt business, but I managed to make a few dollars and get out none the worse for wear.  None of the issues were the fault of the promoters, directors, organizers, and volunteers of the show. It was actually no different than any number of similar events I have attended throughout the country. The weather was incredibly hot the first two days, stormy the night of the second day, fairly nice on the 3rd day, and actually chilly on the last day. The show did what it said it would do. It brought thousands of people past my booth, I managed to do fairly well and a few very happy people in Michigan now own my work. The show promoters will address the issues they need to address and the show will run better next year if they paid attention this year. It was pretty well organized this year and I am sure that will be used to their advantage in the future.

So, I did ok as an artist at the Arts, Beats, and Eats show in Michigan. No real complaints. I know some people will say my work or maybe the work of one of my peers was overpriced or substandard, but all in all it was a mediocre reception. More importantly, I saw something in Detroit that I have not yet seen anywhere else, and that includes the mental health hospitals I used to work in 20+ years ago.

I saw broken spirit.

Not apathy, not rage. What I saw was a broken spirit in the vast majority of the population that I observed.

It began in the hotel. I had traveled directly from a show in Chicago to Detroit and I had to do what every rising star artist does once he settles in to a new city for a show – I did laundry in the hotel laundry room. While the wash was going, I kicked off my Keen’s and threw them in the machine. Then I kicked back and read the newspapers on the Android tablet in a hotel laundry room, barefoot, and drinking a Pepsi. A young lady swiped her room key and entered the room to use the vending machine. She was a dime short and asked me if I could loan her ten cents.

“I normally wouldn’t ask, but I don’t know what else to do. A dollar thirty-five is wayyyy too much for a bag of chips.” she said.

“Well, I do have a dime, but you could certainly just go without the dollar thirty-five chips.” I ventured as I handed her the dime.

“Well I would, but my boyfriend said I have to feed the kids.” she said.

She caught me off-guard and I am sure I looked at her quizzically.

“We’re living in the hotel until our place is ready.” she added.

“Oh, I see.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she selected on the machine’s keyboard.

“I’m an artist at the show in Royal Oak.”

“I hope you do well. Lots of people don’t have jobs here. Unless it’s fast food.”

I nodded and she half-smiled before leaving the room. I was not sure what I witnessed on her face until I set up the booth and saw the people that came to the show a day or two later.

This isn’t a story about an art show, it’s about Detroit. I saw the face of defeat on these people. At this particular festival at this point in time, I saw what Orwell wrote about. You could see the look of defeat on the faces of the people. Young, old, black, white, wealthy, poor – it didn’t matter.

I don’t know who is responsible.

Big business? Did the big automakers create a population that said “How high?” when they said “Jump”? When the businesses started shutting down for cheaper labor and so forth – did they leave the citizenry high and dry?

Labor unions? Did they create a “follow me” mentality that took away all initiative and drive enough so that when the employers left, the workers had no idea what to do or how to do it?

Nanny state? Is the concept of entrepreneurship and sacrifice too much of a drag on the income from the government? Too many rules? Too much control?

Crime? Are people too overwhelmed with the risks of being independent, taking risks, and being exposed to the “ne’er-do-wells”. Does success make one a target?

Of course there were a few exceptions, but what I saw was, by and large, an overwhelming number of the population at the show simply walking. Not really looking, not really enjoying. Not really challenging anyone either. They were not angry. They were stagnant. Defeated. It was in their eyes. I saw it at the show. I saw it at the sushi bar when my friend bought me dinner. I saw it at the little restaurants. I saw it at the hotel. No anger, just resignation.

Many carried around over-priced beer. Some would stop in the booth and make a few inquiries, but they had a look of “I’ll never own one of those.” on their face. They were not sad, just resigned to never elevating to a new level in life. This includes the twenty-somethings, not just the midlife crisis types. More than a few times I heard “Well, you know, this is Detroit” or some variation thereof. I remember chatting with a little girl who was drawn to my work. Her dad looked away and mom did visit with me a little bit. They live in Detroit, she explained – but they are really appreciative that their daughter was accepted outside of the Detroit school system. When I asked if that was a difficult accomplishment, the mother nodded with teary eyes and the dad simply walked on. I wasn’t worth his time to explain life in Detroit and I don’t blame him.

I watched a drug dealer in a car outside of the show on my way back to the van one evening. He was engaging and polite. His customers were furtive and quiet. I thought about what I was watching as I walked by. He knew he had to make their experience pleasant. Otherwise they would not even come to see him. He was by no means mysterious or intimidating or frightening, just friendlier than most of the people his customers would see all day. He was working the phone, texting,  and visiting with people that stopped. He had it down. A multi-tasker that would obviously do very well in a legitimate business.

These people are stuck in neutral. They are stagnant.  The busiest, most animated, loudest booth at the entire festival event? It was a thing put on by a bank and some radio station. An obnoxious, shallow, and degrading exercise that encouraged people to compete for all the “free money” they could grab in a glass booth. One had to circumvent the entire street and walk down another block or behind the food booths to get past. Free money, unearned money. Maybe it was a metaphor for all the generations and permutations of Detroit prior to 2008. I don’t really know.

President Obama came to town on Labor Day, the last day of the show. I watched the news in the hotel that morning. No enthusiasm in the voices of the newspeople. No enthusiasm in the people milling around where he was supposed to speak. The crowd at the show in Royal Oak was the largest of the festival on Labor Day, meaning they did not go see the president.  I noted a lack of  enthusiasm when it was covered that evening.

With very few exceptions (there were wonderful volunteers and public servants at the show) – apathy, defeat, and stagnation is what is cooking on the menu in Detroit. I don’t know if it was a reliance on too few industries, a dependence on the government for survival, a blind faith in following the unions, a reluctance to stand out, a lack of pride, or any combination – but something is stagnating Detroit and the blank faces of most of it’s citizens say it all.

I won’t come back to Detroit in the foreseeable future. As a business owner, it’s too risky for too small of a return. I got out by the skin of my teeth. My customers did not come to the show for the most part. I don’t know where they were, but I did not see them while I was in Detroit. 

As an artist and a person, I don’t want to see what I did see ever again.

All yours, Detroit.

JohnStillmunks.com

Colors

I was working in the studio early the other day. I have some huge shows coming up and there are lots of things to do to prepare. I always call it a Murphy’s Law thing – when I have an incredible amount of stuff to do in a short time frame, the damnedest people show up for the even more damnedest reasons. This particular day was no exception.

Probably the worst.

I was catching up on emails and getting ready to go work on a new painting when I saw someone – a stranger, stick his face onto the picture window of the gallery, see me, and then knock on the window – he had some lady – another stranger, with him who was doing the same thing on the entry door. The mailman showed up too. “Good God” I thought as I went up to get the mail and shoo these people away before the street sweeper and maybe the UPS guy show up too.

I got the mail, thanked the mailman and looked at this couple.

“Can I help you?”

“We really need to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, can we come in?”

“No.  Now, what about me?”

“Well, we want you to know your colors.”

“I’ve known my colors for almost 50 years.”

“Well, you really don’t. You see, what you think is blue is really red, and. . .”

“My Dad taught me my colors when I was a child. I’ve practiced all my life. I know my colors.”

“Well, if we could just come in, we can explain to you why you don’t know your colors.”

“I’m an artist. I know color. I’ve been working color for many years. I know red. I know blue. I know purple.”

They both kept talking outside the door. I didn’t hear them. Instead I thought back to colors in my family’s life:

Coloring in color books. Every now and then – getting out the watercolors. Colored chalk on Marcy’s chalkboard. Kaleidoscopes. Christmas candy that had lots of great colors and tasted like crap. Sidewalk chalk. Green and yellow dandelions. Red Triaminic syrup. Revolving lights on my aunt and uncle’s silver Christmas tree. My grandfather’s gold nickel slot machine. Color wheels and color theory in college. Kelly has the red and yellow indians. I had the blue soldiers. I know blue. My black and tan dog. My brother’s red and yellow Big Wheel. Playing Atari in all it’s primary color splendor with my step-sisters. That red Volkswagen everyone in the neighborhood knew all too well. Red Vess strawberry pop in the garage. Earth-tone Thanksgivings. Pastel birthdays. Ice cream before bed. Orange and green cabinets. Brown shoe polish for my Dad’s work boots every Friday night. Blue language in the tirades and bitching and manipulation. Purple gown for graduation and then no place to go afterward. My brother’s tattoo. My oldest son was blue when he was born. When my youngest was born – the unmistakable, undeniable presence of my deceased great-aunt just behind my shoulder at the moment he entered the world – and she had her favorite pink dress on. Actually it was more rose than pink. It was her favorite.

Red roses for Grandmother Duffy. Divorce. Births. Ostracizing. Cousins. Gossip. Graduations. Alliances. Sacraments. Whispering. Feuds. Funerals. Marriages. Relationships. Ups. Downs. My own family for 50 years. I know my colors. I know the differences and I know the combinations. I married and gave the name that was given to me to my wife and children. I raise my children the only way I know based on the example my Dad set for me.

“Let us come in and tell you what colors really are – and how you should view them.”

“I don’t care.” I said.

“You don’t care?” they echoed wide-eyed.

I watched these strangers who had the nerve to correct what I know is true about my colors after 50 years. I know my colors. My Dad taught me what color is and what it means. I helped bury my sister and all four of my grandparents and my great-aunt. I know colors. I know them very well. I know blue and I know rose.

I stared at them.

“I want you people to go away,” I said, “Maybe you people think I don’t, but I do – I know color, I know nuances, I know subtleties, I know shades,  I know differences, I know similarities. I know it all very well.”

I know relativity.

I pulled the door shut and walked into the painting studio.

“Your uncle sent us when we went to talk to him about you and your colors.” one of them shouted toward the studio. As if that would be an “Open Sesame” for them. Hardly. They could hold a decree from the Pope and they still would be standing outside.

I sipped my coffee while I watched these strangers through the studio window as they got into their grey car.

I spoke in the car’s direction in between sips of coffee as it pulled away:  “I love my uncle, but he’s profoundly mistaken if he felt it was appropriate for you people to ambush me about my colors without a ‘heads up’ from him . . . .”

Even so, he’s family. I am angry with him for not warning me, but he’s still my uncle – always will be. I know my colors and I know who is in my family tree. Some are related by blood, some not.

More importantly I know of two – these two visitors who are definitely not relatives.

And probably one more too, but she already knows.

Don’t screw with me or my name – ever.

I know my colors.

JohnStillmunks.com

Bitter and Sweet Irony

 

It looked like he broke his back.

This squirrel was lying in the middle of the street in front of the house. We have these gargantuan oak trees on our block. When you stand in the middle of the street and look up, it feels like you are in a cathedral, or maybe the sportsbook at Caesar’s Palace. The squirrel appeared to have fallen out of one of the trees and landed in the middle of the street. It’s happened before. They fall and break something. Usually the next morning they’re dead or carried off somewhere by one of the owls or raccoons or something even more sinister.

Once when one of the kids found one, we put it in a box and took it to the Animal Rescue League to be euthanized. Cost me $5.00 and an hour of my time – but it was a good lesson for both of us. My son learned to care for creatures less fortunate than we happen to be, and I learned to make sure the kids are not around next time so I can clock the little beast out with a shovel and bury him by the hedge for fertilizer.

Nonetheless, I was having a coffee out in the front yard when I noticed the poor bastard lying there. Bill the Cat saw him too, but we both figured he was long gone. Bill tapped my arm while I was reading the Times on my phone and nodded toward the squirrel. He was moving.

“Probably a broken back.” I said and went back to the newspaper.

A few minutes later I looked up and nudged Bill – the squirrel probably fell out of the tree alright, but he was shaking it off. He was moving more now and making an effort to get on all fours.

Maybe a minute later we could see he was fine. He might be a bit sore later today and his brain may swell up from the trauma and explode inside his skull by nightfall – but the fact remained he was not going to die in a manner unbecoming to any squirrel -  that is, by falling out of a tree of all things.

Bill stood up to head over toward the squirrel. Always the opportunist.

I called him back and encouraged him to give the squirrel some space.

“Poor thing fell out of a tree, Bill. Show him a little grace for crying out loud.”

Bill sat on the wrought iron table while we both watched the squirrel start to very slowly walk toward the curb.

“He’s shaky, but he might be ok, huh Bill?”

Bill nodded without taking his eyes off the squirrel.

“Lucky bastard.” I said. Bill nodded again.

Then we both watched the girl who lives down the block hauling ass up the street in her blue Jeep. Radio blaring, sunglasses on, chewing gum, phone cradled to her ear while she checked her mascara in the mirror. She didn’t have enough appendages to spare one in order to shift the Jeep from 2nd to 3rd.

The Jeep with the screaming motor and oversized Jeep tires nailed that squirrel dead center. The squirrel – for the record – made an admirable effort, but was too sore or maybe too disoriented to escape the path of the oncoming Jeep – he curled up in a tight ball and took his destiny like a champ. She must have hit him at about 40, maybe 45 mph.

We heard a pop and both winced when the squirrel took the hit. Later we saw that the spray pattern was way past the hostas and onto the middle of the sidewalk. It was indeed a good death, but Bill and I agreed the falling out of the tree thing was all so unnecessary. Letting him live long enough to get hit by a Jeep just seemed, well, appeared to be senseless and cruel. Funny as hell, but senseless and cruel nonetheless. Maybe there was a reason for it all, but that reason was rather difficult to determine as we stared at the squirrel’s flattened remains on the street in front of the house.

I sipped my coffee, “Throw that poor bastard in the sewer later today, will you Bill?”

No answer. I turned and saw Bill just turning the corner around the house at a faster pace than the Jeep we just saw murder the squirrel. Then I turned the other way and saw Nanna turning into the driveway with her trusty old ‘72 Pontiac Ventura.

“How do you get that thing started every day, Nanna?”

She ignored my smartass question and went around to the trunk, unlocked it, gave it a downward elbow strike which popped the lid open, all while staring at me with one of her patented “looks”.

I watched her high step over the flower bed next to the driveway while balancing her Uzi  as she  held two clips and adjusted her housedress as she came up the lawn right toward me.

“How’s your morning going, Nanna?” I asked.

She snapped in one of the clips, put the other one on the table and leveled the Uzi at me.

“Want some coffee, Nanna?”

She kept staring.

So I stared back.

Finally she spoke. Very softly. Kind of like Clint Eastwood.

“I hear you’ve been writing about me.”

I sat back. I knew this day would come sooner or later.

“I have to write about you, Nanna. Christ,  I created you.”

Her eyes narrowed and she pulled the trigger -

Nothing.

She looked down and saw she was holding a recently run over squirrel. She threw it down and stamped back down the lawn to the Ventura’s trunk. She pulled out a shoulder-mounted bazooka and pointed it at me. She pulled the trigger only to look and see it was Bill and not a bazooka stinger on her shoulder. She threw the cat down and started yelling and screaming obscenities along with various and sundry insults – only no sound was coming from her mouth. She covered her mouth and turned beet red as she jumped up and down in a royal fit only to discover she was jumping on a pogo stick.

She stopped and got off the pogo-stick.

“Ok, I am done with this. You mean to tell me I am one of your characters?

“You could look at it that way.”

“So, I never had my favorite dresses stolen by J. Edgar Hoover?”

“I cannot confirm or deny that one Nanna.”

“What about the Witness Protection thing?”

I didn’t answer.

“Leading the Arab Summer demonstrations?”

I stayed quiet.

“What about my affair with Bobby Kennedy?”

“That may have actually happened Nanna.”

She put her hands on her hips. So who am I patterned after?

“One of my aunts, and also a great aunt I loved very much and maybe a teacher or two as well. A little bit of my great-grandmother too in an ironic sort of way.”

She stared at me some more.

“Coffee Nanna?”

She shook her head to indicate “No.”

“Shooter?”

She nodded and I poured us both a shot of Jameson.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?” I responded.

“Why do you write this stuff?”

“Why not?” I replied.

“Some people like what you write.”

“Some don’t though – right?”

Nanna nodded.

“Some also probably don’t care one way or another Nanna.”

“Some people tell me some of your writing is better than your painting.”

“Sometimes they’re right Nanna. Sometimes the writing is better, sometimes the painting is better.

“So why don’t you just be a writer?”

“Because I am a just a painter that writes.”

“Both?”

“Yep. They are actually very similar if you really look at both.”

“Some people say you are uncivil.”

“Yes I know Nanna. Those are the same people who cannot comprehend when someone writes about them or even paints about them, they are actually getting tons of attention that they would not normally receive. In fact it was probably the most legitimacy they will ever receive in the art world. A friend of mine insists the opposite of love is not hate, it’s apathy. I tend to agree.”

“Are you uncivil?”

“I’m not civil or uncivil. I just paint and write. I’m an artist. Art is not uncivil or civil. Art is art. It’s controversial and it pushes limits. It makes people uncomfortable. It makes them think – whether they want to think or not, whether they are able to or not – for at least a moment or two. Anything less is dabbling in trinkets and “pretties”. Aesthetics are important, but Art is way past all that. Art is not always “oooh’s and ahhhh’s” – it raises more emotions that that. If it wasn’t for artists, what would the soul crave?”

“So you’re going to keep writing?”

“Oh hell yes. Have you ever seen those pet falcons when they pull those hoods off them in the middle of a big field? Nothing holds them back. Ferocious and limitless. I’m going to keep writing so loudly they’ll hear me all the way from . . . . let’s say North Carolina to Oregon and everywhere in between.”

“So you have an agenda?”

“Actually no, Nanna, I do not. I am just a painter that can spell. I’m not impressed with manipulators, shills, spin doctors, and whoever may be lurking behind the curtain at any given moment, but I do not have an agenda, I’m just an artist.

”So, I‘ve been a part of this all along?”

”Yep.”

”I‘ll be around for more?”

”Do you want to be?”

”Sounds fun.”

”OK then, Nanna – you‘re in.”

“Can I have my Uzi back and maybe a nicer car too?”

“No.”

“Damn you.”

“Whatever Nanna.”

And so we sat for a while and said nothing more.  We sat out there and watched the squirrels in the trees and the lawns  for a little while longer before getting on with our days.

JohnStillmunks.com

Swinging for the Fences

I was selling my paintings at an art fair recently.

I had a 4×5 (feet – not inches) painting for sale in the booth. It attracted a lot of attention and I received more compliments than I could care to remember about this particular work. It was pricey, it was the most expensive painting I have ever put on the market up to that time. It was a strong painting and the subject matter was well articulated. The colors came together well and I was really satisfied with the results of my idea and my labor.

This couple stood in the booth looking at the painting before they went over to my flip bin of smaller paintings on paper – priced significantly lower than the painting on the wall.

“Do you have a smaller version of that?” the young lady said as her husband or whatever kept flipping through the smaller paintings.

“Everything I do is original -  it is part of a series, but I am sorry, I only have that one.”

Her Sweetie joined her after he stopped looking through the works on paper. “Why just originals?”

“Because my customers prefer originals and I prefer to sell only originals.”

“But we don’t want that one, we just want a picture of it.”

“What about owning the actual painting for your home?”

They both looked at me with a blank stare – they just didn’t get it. To them, it was an image – a picture. Nothing more. It looked nice to them. It did nothing for their souls or their hearts.

“If you sold prints of it, you’d make more money.” I listened to the young man’s ideas for a while. (“I’m in Marketing, blah, blah, blah, and I know you would do – blah, blah, blah, – much better with more examples of your brand out – blah, blah, blah, – there.”) before I came out and asked him point-blank:

“Do you realize a photo, a copy of this painting in any kind of a smaller scale – would diminish the impact of this painting? The very elements that brought you into the booth would no longer exist. If you want a painting, don’t you want a nice painting – the best painting?”

“Do you have a card?” the girl interrupted.

I asked her why she wanted a card.

“To go to your website, do you have a website?”

“Oh yes,” I said, “I have a website, do you know why?”

She looked at me quizzically.

“Because it’s 2011, that’s why I have a website, now what did you want to find on the website?”

She stared blankly. Her Sweetie wasn’t sure what was happening.

“I do not have this painting posted anywhere on the website.” I said

She pursed her lips and spun around before they both left the booth. Sweetie had no idea she was going to steal the image and print it out. Nice catch there, pal.

I watched them walk away and browse around some cheap birdhouses made in China and set up as original art next to my booth. The young couple had a difficult time getting to the birdhouses because of the number of people buying the imported birdhouses from the vendor in the booth. The vendor’s wife was removing cheap prints from a box stamped “China” and matting them in the back of the booth. After she matted them, she signed them with a little Sharpie, placed them in cellophane baggies and sealed them shut before placing them for sale in the booth later in the afternoon.

As a painter, I knew I was seeing at least 5, maybe six different styles of painting in the booth, not counting the few birdhouses that were left.

“How were you able to keep the yellow from getting muddy from the black in this painting?” I asked my neighbor later that day.

“It’s very nice, isn’t it?” was his answer.

I tried again, “Are these watercolors or oils?”

“Yes, I’ve been painting for many years.” he replied.

I just nodded and smiled as a young college kid made his way into the booth and complimented this man for his “beautiful, beautiful art”.

Later, I did sell my painting, the cheap couple probably found something nice and cheap for their home – or at least a website to lift it from, and I had yet another epiphany.

We keep catering to the lowest common denominator.

Why?

Why do we cater to the squeaky wheel? Why do we concern ourselves with the people that bitch the most? The people that want to cut corners. Do things the easy way. The fast way.

Maybe it should be phrased the other way. Why aren’t we focusing on the prize? Why aren’t we using the best materials, the best ideas, focusing on patrons that know, love, and try to understand art? We are we peddling “cheap, nearly worthless” (an acquaintance of mine calls them CNW’s for “cheap, nearly worthless”) prints or copies – “copies” is a much better word.

Why aren’t we swinging for the fences?

A friend of mine sold out her booth last week. Yeah, in a “recession” she emptied her booth of all her glass creations. My neighbor at this same show is a very talented and hardworking sculptor – not that yard art crap – I mean a true metal sculptor with some really, really nice work. Expensive too. Both of them had nice, expensive work to show and sell at this show. My neighbor just about sold every sculpture he brought. Not for $20, not for $200 – these were big ticket sculptures. People were walking up to him and pointing to the one they wanted. Amazing.

What did both of my friends have in common?

They had nice, quality work.

They knew it.

They were confident in their labor, their display, their reputation, and their patrons.

They each have been doing this particular show for NINE years. Nine years they have been making strong, beautiful works of art and bringing it to this venue. It could be anywhere, but it was there. The patrons knew the artists, they knew the work, they knew quality, and they knew the artists knew it as well.

No where in this equation was there any mention of catering to the lowest common denominator. If the customer wants beautiful, original artwork – he or she knows they have to pay a fair price for the work. The should feel offended to pay anything less.

Recently I heard a story about an artist who immediately shot a lower offer than the ticketed price to a customer in his booth without the customer even asking for it. The artist was desperate for a sale and it showed. The customer calmly invited the artist to his home in the mountains for dinner that night. The artist accepted the offer and pulled up to a beautiful mansion in the foothills. The customer fed him a wonderful dinner and they went to the balcony to have drinks.

The customer told the artist:

“You have beautiful work. I am rich. I could have bought your whole booth. You offered me a lower price without me even asking – as if I couldn’t afford it. You offended me and I really wanted to buy your work at a fair price. I wanted you to see where and how I live. I really wanted to buy your work to put in my home and share with my family and friends. I don’t know why I offended you, but I feel like I did when you low-balled me. Please don’t treat your customers like they are unable to afford your artwork.”

And he sent the artist on his way without buying anything.

We do we cater to the lowest common denominator?

A young lady entered my booth at this same show – a college student probably. She announced loudly how beautiful my work is – to which I replied “I know”.

She saw the empty spots on my display and asked if this indicated that these were sold. I assured her that some people were very happy to have some new paintings in their home.

This college girl then exclaimed “Good for you! You sold some of your art!”

“That is why I am here.” I replied.

“Wow, you sure are confident!” was this kid’s sarcastic response.

“Honey” I said, “come here a second.”

This young lady stepped closer and listened as I said: “After all my education and training, I came up with the ideas and purchased the materials, then I made the paintings, then I loaded them up AFTER being accepted through a jury process, then I drove them for X number of hours, unloaded my entire display in 95 degree heat, set up this mini-gallery before you, spent the night in a hotel, called my family this morning to make sure everything was ok there, and stood out here visiting with every passerby that would look at my paintings – why wouldn’t I be confident in my work?”

She nodded. I could tell she “got” what I was saying. She probably learned more in that 2 minutes than a whole semester of Marketing 101 would have done.

No matter what it is, why don’t we swing for the fences and quit playing to the lowest denominators?

 

JohnStillmunks.com