Perfect Storm

Recently I received an invitation from a person who covers art (an umbrella term for things artistic I suppose.) for the newspaper in the little town where I live. (I am proud to say I am not from there, but sadly, I do live there.) The invitation was to send suggestions to him regarding ideas on how to view or relate the magnificient “art weekend” there to his readers.

This kind of got the ball rolling, I suppose.

I’ve been reading some shockingly self-serving comments by artists regarding shows under the guise of some kind of protection a Facebook group might somehow provide if the membership was sealed. This group of “turks”, as my east coast friend calls them, allows very little, if any, dissent within their hallowed halls. Funny stuff, but not very savvy when it comes to giving shows a chance to improve and or clean up their act. I haven’t expressed my view very much because it is more fun to watch them wrap themselves tighter and tighter into a groupthink. It has been difficult to see so much energy and passion go – down the drain.

There has been an attempt by the owner of another art-show/artist-related website to encourage dialogue where many people have already left or claim to have left – citing either frustration with some ideas there or if not the actual writing, then the censorship that may or may not take place over there depending on one’s perspective. In addition, the comments pinned to the owner’s essay generally kowtow to the middle-of-the-road mentality that has infected the sight from people with selfish agendi. Don’t rock the boat, don’t let anyone feel like an idiot – even though they may be one. Facts is facts. She’s a friend, but the site has been taken over by agendized pseudo-artists with rose-colored glasses and a penchant for the positive – all day, every day – unless they are on that secret Facebook site, then it’s a different story.

Another website where I am fairly active and fully support (http://www.thecornerbooth.proboards.com) has put forth an interesting premise. In a nutshell, and using some round numbers here for simplicity’s sake: The idea has been put forth to consider that in order to make $100,000 a year as an artist doing shows – $10,000 at a minimum must be made at 10 shows – individually. Even if they do 20 shows a year – the magic number is $5000 at each show – at a minimum. Of course we have not addressed overhead: insurance, taxes, retirement, hotels, travel, repairs, etc. – which could easily take a third of that 100K. So, to take home $66,000 – 5K needs to come in from 20 shows each year.

That is quite a task and does give one a pause . . . something to think about when you are sitting at $1800 during a supposed 5 star show with a $500 booth fee, a $45 jury fee and 5 nights in hotels with 2 days driving each way – with only 2 hours to go and some guy wants to tell you how much he used to enjoy painting when he got back from Korea in 1962 while people walk by and thank you for “sharing your work with them this weekend” on their way to the concert with a couple of $12 beers in each hand and looking so forward to seeing those fireworks – for free!

(pssst: It’s even more fun when you are across from some supposed artist selling Chinese birdhouses – handpainted, to be sure for $19.99 and your in-laws bought six for Christmas presents this year because they are “soooooooo cute”.)

A perfect storm indeed – especially during a recession and when so many know so little about art at art fairs.

What are my suggestions for the newspaperman?

Outside of asking him to learn as much about the visual arts as he knows about things like the theater (he rocks on theater stuff) and also who is playing in what golf tournament in California – I would ask him to consider the same things I would ask of anyone involved in the art show world – either as an artist, visitor, patron, promoter, writer, or stalker at any art show in the country. These are some of my perspectives based on ten years of shows.

Some will disagree.

Some will agree.

The sun will rise tomorrow anyway.

—————————

Here they are:

Go to the show. Don’t read about it. Don’t take pictures from a helicopter. Don’t ask your friends on Monday. Go. Take a friend, take an enemy. Go.

Recognize and do not forget, even for a moment that the artists are there to sell their work – if not to you, then to someone else. It’s what we do. We make beautiful things and sell them.

Most bona fide art shows are juried. They are not free for the artists. The artists pay a jury fee and a booth fee. The fees are not cheap. The shows do not provide the individual tents. Some of the shows have large circus-type tents that are provided as a building would be provided for some “indoor” shows. But those vanilla, stamped out white tents? They are not free. The artists buy those when they start their businesses. It is a privilege to be juried into an art show. Usually 2 or 3 people were rejected for every one artist accepted.

Sometimes it is a curse to be accepted into a show. The artist rarely returns if there are too few sales – no matter how cool the concerts were or how beautiful the day was.

Some shows are shady and border on criminal. Some are outstanding. The average visitor has no way of knowing how disgustingly or wonderfully the artists are treated at some venues. This is not a reflection on the artists or the artists’ work. The purpose of a show is not the show, it is the customer. Buy the art, not the show. By the way, artists generally hate the Friday night VIP mixers that they get to decorate with their booths. It basically means an extra hotel day and three days in the booth for very little payoff. I know some disagree, but it’s my list.

Promoters and Directors: Stop asking for mandatory donations of artwork. We don’t get a tax break on anything other than the cost of materials and that raises a red flag anyway. Stop demanding. Artists can, will, and do make donations to the charities of their own choosing. Charity auctions cheapen the value of the artists’ work. Patrons please recognize the artist is truly giving of their own free will. If bidders/patrons are not sure, then please ask if the donations were freely given or were they wrung out of each accepted artist.

If you are bidding on a donated piece and you win – please don’t go running up to the artist to thank them as loudly as you possibly can because you just got a $900 painting for $23.00.

Enjoy yourself at the show. Buy a beer. Walk around. Talk to your friends with your backs to the booths, but at some point – visit the booths. Go in. Say “hi”. You don’t have to buy anything. You don’t have to tell them who you are. Believe me, they don’t care. They are just glad you came in and said “hi”. So come in, look around. Very few of us are high-pressure types. We want you to see how good our work is.

When you leave, please leave with a smile or a nod. No need to promise anything. If you have a question, please ask. If you don’t, then don’t. If you have a comment or a criticism, make it brief and please, please, please understand not one of the artists gives a damn what you think – but you are still a pretty nice person and you are welcome to re-visit anytime. If you want to leave quietly, that’s fine. It’s ok. No need to tell us you’ll “be back”. Most of the time, we already know. We already know.

Please don’t ask if we were drunk or what drugs we take when we create. It’s condescending, rude, presumptive, and insulting to a professional artist. Go ask the portfolio manager you had in 2008 instead.

When you engage an artist in a conversation about a piece and show interest in the artist’s work, you may ask for a card. If you are looking for a way out of the booth without obligating yourself, just walk out – believe me, we are glad to see you go rather than ask for a card you don’t want anyway. Newsflash: we know when you are looking for a way out of the booth without appearing cheap. We know you are not cheap, just go. It’s ok.

Free card with every purchase at my booth.

If you are looking for free entertainment, please walk in, enjoy, and then walk out of the booth quietly. If you really need to step up that need to be entertained, please enjoy one of the free events – like a stiltwalker or a fireworks show. Try watching the crowd (or lack thereof), after all – it’s what we do too.

Don’t steal.

If you are drunk or loaded. Enjoy yourself in the aisle or with the police and come back tomorrow to visit the booths.

Not one of the artists wants to see your work, or critique it, or tell you that you have talent, or hear how you had to quit painting because you just couldn’t think of what to paint. They may pretend they do, but trust me – they are there for sales.

We spent a lifetime making each piece. It took years to get to the level to make whatever it is you are looking at. Please don’t ask how long it took to make it. We have 15 timeclocks all going at once – just like you do in your profession.

If you see something you like, talk to the artist about it. Ask about it. Tell them what it means to you. Buy the work if you can afford it and you are in love with it. If not, then walk away. No hard feelings. Ask for a card at that time. We’ll know you are sincere.

If you are a newspaper writer, for the love of God, stop picking (or receiving pre-picked) artist statements and photos that look good in print. It’s old, it’s been done, it’s yesterday. It’s boring. The last thing the shows need right now is – boring.

If you feel you must bargain, realize many artists will not do so. But if you must, be prepared to state your offer and accept the counter – or don’t.

If you are in the media, a sponsor, a promoter, a visitor, whatever – recognize that the show is about the art, not the show. No sales = No artists = No visitors = No More Show. It’s always about the art and the customers.

Ask about layaway – many will work with you.

Cash is NOT a determining factor. If you are a dentist and someone offers you cash for a procedure, does that alter the price? How about at the grocery store? Try the utility company on that one.

Walk around the booths, not through them. Would you want that artist to walk through your back office on Monday?

Don’t ask us about other artists on the circuit. Chances are we know them or know of them. Chances are even greater that we don’t want to talk about them. Odds are really good we don’t like them. Name-dropping works only as an ice-breaker with us. Maybe.

As artists, we know that 93% of all dog walkers at a show are not going to buy a piece of artwork – not ever in their lifetime. We also know that 100% of the dogs will not do so. We also know that 12% will whizz in our booth and their owner will pretend nothing happened. 2% will leave a deuce on the street in front of someone’s booth and both the dog and owner will walk away. 100 % of the artists that love dogs will wince at the sight of the poor dogs trying to get in the shade while their very shallow owner ignores the dog’s burning pads on the pavement. 100% of artists that don’t love dogs will think the same thing. If you must bring Ruffie the Dog, please come barefoot so you can understand how it feels.

Artists: Do not stack your stuff out in the aisle. It’s shallow and rude. The only thing worse is confronting another artist and accusing them of plagiarism in their own booth. Douchery 101.

Please leave your monkey or your parrot or your goldfish in a fishbowl at home. Really. Leave them at home. Really.

If you must say: “Who the hell would buy that?”, say it at home or better yet, in your next therapy session where you will probably see that particular piece anyway.

Do not try to sell anything to an artist at a show. We already have a credit card purveyor. We don’t want your damn Sourcebook. Just don’t. We are there to sell, not buy. Sell.

We will probably deliver a painting or a sculpture to your home. Understand that someone knows we are going to be there and for how long. Sometimes we will even agree to let you decide on your purchase once it’s on your wall. Please be a good host and offer a soda or something, it’s been a long day. Please no haggling on your turf. Lastly, if you don’t want us in your home, don’t ask to have it brought over.

If you suspect some work may be imported junk, please tell the show staff. A good sign is the pile of Made in China boxes under a table in the booth or the Made in Mexico stickers on those yard art things.

When you walk down the aisle proudly displaying your new piece of yard art (aka: Shit on a Stick) – please know that damn near everyone from the guy who sold it to you to the kids pulling the water cart are practically having an embolism from silently laughing at you.

If you are with the media, lose the old Marketing/Newsroom delineation line. No one ever believed it. Ever. (See embolism comment above.)

Media people: we don’t need you as much as we used to because now we have the internet. So, shape up. No more “a great time was had by all” journalism. We’re not as stupid as you used to think we were.

(Signed)

Shows, Customers, Artists, and Just About Everyone Else.

Artists: stay away from my booth when I am working with my customers and please don’t tell me what to paint.

Customers: Please don’t tell me what to paint, unless you are making a custom order.

Do not ever, ever, ever follow an artist to their hotel or on the highway after a show. Ever.

Regarding awards. Take them or leave them. They are usually presented by a judge who has no business judging work that had no business winning – but not always. Buy the art, not the ribbon.

If there are two or more competing shows in your community during the same time period, please treat them all fairly as members of the media, patrons, and competing artists. It’s all so juvenile otherwise. The shows are there, they exist, they are competing. Nobody is “complementing” anything. Deal with it.

Please do not believe for even one moment that when you say “I love this, but I just don’t have ANY room in my house because of all the art I have collected.” or some variation of that sentence – that we have never heard that before. Just smile and go to the next booth. It’ll save us all the embarrassment.

Everyone: Please ask before you photograph a booth or the work of an artist inside. Just ask. If they say “Sure.” then fire away, but “no” means “no”.

Photographers walking around with the huge-lensed cameras and the correspondent’s vests: Just don’t. Leave them at home. Again, really.

Photographers: Don’t cry or complain when your camera is smashed on the pavement because you insisted on your rights to photograph original artwork when asked not to do so by the artist. Just saying.

Media, Shows, Patrons: Talk to the artists. Listen to them. Be sincere.

If you or maybe you and someone close to you come into a booth and are overcome with emotion about about a piece, tell the artist why, you’ll make his or her day.

Times may be tough for some, but as artists we refuse to participate in a recession.

Buy the art, not the show – it’s between you and the artist. It always has been and always will be.

Come to the shows, talk to the artists, have fun. Buy works of art from genuine artists this summer.

Buy real art.

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

Heartland Havens (Part I)

“What the hell?”

The Colonel stepped out of the shack and looked across the dusty yard toward the commotion. 6 o’clock and the dust was already shaking off the joke of a morning dew to swirl around the yard by the barn.  He took a long pull off the earthenware jug and swished the bourbon around his gums before spitting over the rail. The sun was not far off the horizon and it already seemed to be an unforgiving kind of day.  He squinted toward the henhouse and saw his assistant gliding on a Segway and a plume of dust from behind the outbuildings over in what they call “No Man’s Land” there on the farm. It was an area that only the new people were placed, until they earned their place in the system. He saw a larger cloud behind the Segway and wondered just what in the hell could be going on now.

“What the hell?”

The Colonel considered hopping in his golf cart to investigate what the hell his assistant was doing now, but in the end decided to set back in his good ol’ rocking chair and call his stiltwalker out to handle things.

“Stretch!”

No answer.

“Stretch goddammit! Get over here!”

Stretch the Stiltwalker stepped around the side of the house and looked down at the Colonel. Hands on his hips and smiling, he asked the Colonel if he was enjoying himself today, etc., etc.

The Colonel listened to Stretch for a minute or two in aghast amazement and then waved his hand to silence the stiltwalker. He sent him a little further out in the yard to see what in the hell was chasing his assistant who was incidentally riding the Segway.

“What the hell is that, Colonel?” Stretch asked.

“Not sure.” The Colonel wiped his brow with one of the twenty’s he had inside his straw hat.

“Well, Colonel . . .” Stretch said as he shaded his eyes and looked over toward “No Man’s Land”.

“What?”

“I can see from here, Colonel.” drawled the Stiltwalker.

“See what?”

“It appears to be – appears to be . . .”

“Appears to be what?”

The Stiltwalker turned and looked down toward the Colonel.

The Colonel looked up at Stretch.

“Well!”

“Colonel, that appears to be a flock or herd of chickens – hens, it seems!”

“How many? We only have room for 170.”

“Including the waitlist?”

The Colonel looked out toward the commotion and suddenly burst out laughing.

“Including the waitlist, – that’s a good one Stretch!!!”

Stretch laughed nervously until the Colonel asked for a head count.

“I’m going to guess over 500 Colonel!”

“500 you say – wow!”

The Colonel kept watching the dust and commotion. “This is going to be a blast, eh Stretch?”

Stretch nodded.

“Do you think they all got together in the last month, Stretch?” asked the Colonel

“Not sure, Colonel.”

“Aw, hell, no cares about that kind of stuff anyway.”  The Colonel looked down at the little robot butler-thing next to his rocker. “Fetch me another jug, you little creepy thing.”

The contraption just stood there. No movement.

“Damn thing is worthless, isn’t it Stretch?”

“Yep. Kind of a Frankenstein kinda thing. You want me to ask the Evening Clown to have it added to tonight’s pyro show?”

The Colonel kept watching the commotion in the yard. “Nah. Let’s see what’s going on here with all these damned hens first.”

The Morning Clown watched through the tear in his show tent. He heard everything and could see the commotion. He saw the little volunteer kids starting to pull their water cart around the walkway. He looked away from the volunteer kids back to the noise. He knew what was coming from that ruckus and he didn’t want the kids to see the tear running down his cheek. His job was to chalk out the booths for the day, he had to stay focused, nothing more. He turned and reached for his “Art Carnie” hat.

“Sure is hot.” he murmured to himself.

-End Part I-

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

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 3 – Nanna Covers Her Tracks

Continued from (Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 2 – In Which Nanna Might Have Robbed a Crack House)

“She has to be in her eighties and you took her out for shots of tequila? Are you nuts?” The Mrs. was standing at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, tapping her foot and apparently doubting me.

“We went for a birthday drink after I picked her up at the airport. Just a little dive place on the way to her condo.”

“And then you guys got into a bar fight – right?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure.”

“Not really.”

“How did you get here?”

“She dropped me off.”

The nurse came in and checked the IV, wrote something in the chart, raised an eyebrow, nodded to the Mrs., and walked out.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“I talked to her and she said she was on her way down here to see you, even though SHE says you left her at that dive bar!”

“Figures.”

Nanna peeked into the room from the hallway and tapped lightly on the door. She tiptoed into the room holding her purse with both hands.

“How you doing, Honey?” she whispered as she came over next to me.

She felt my forehead and gave me a peck on the cheek. The Mrs. was talking with the nurse in the doorway.

“Not bad, Nanna. Not bad for having a psychotic nanna that robs crack houses and tells my wife I left her in a dive bar by the airport. Other than that not bad.” I whispered.

She patted my hand. “You really need to lay off that tequila honey.” She took a small bottle of Visine out of her purse. “Now just follow my lead,” – her eyes narrowed, “and watch your tone.”

“My wife thinks I got into a bar fight for crying out loud.”

Nanna quickly put the Visine in her eyes and let it run down her cheeks. Then she turned around before we both looked up and saw the biggest policeman I have ever seen in my life as he stepped into the room and flipped his notebook open.

Nanna turned on the crocodile tears like a Visine faucet and began to wail at the policeman.

“Oh NOW you show up!” she shrieked and opened her purse for a tissue. He’s been mugged and barely clinging to life and now you show up – where were you when he needed you?”

The policeman stopped abruptly. “Mugged? He was mugged?”

“Well obviously! Look at him! He’s so brave . . . why are you policemen never around when we need you . . .” She carried on for quite some time. Tears and wailing and crying and complaining and lamenting and sobbing and really working herself up into a frenzy. The nurse and the Mrs. came over and tried to calm her down with very little success. No surprise there.

The policeman turned to me and asked where I was when I was robbed.

“Look at him, look at him – can’t you let him rest before you make him re-live everything!” Nanna sobbed, “Have you no decency! Leave him alone, he needs his rest!”

I closed my eyes and wished they would all go away.

The policeman left his card with the Mrs. and asked her, to have me, call him, later. I could hear everyone leaving the room as I fell back asleep.

————————————

I woke up some time later to see Nanna had dropped the bedrail, pulled up a chair and was using part of the mattress as a table as she counted out several piles of cash next to my arm.

She smiled at me. “We’ve got the booth money for this year’s art shows all right here, Honey.”

I looked at her as she proudly counted the money and smiled at me before I fell back in my pillow, and prayed for a quick and sweet release of death.

(to be continued)

——————————

JohnStillmunks.com

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 2 – In Which Nanna Might Have Robbed a Crack House

(continued from “Art, Censorship, and Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna” )

Later, I tried to open my eyes. I had a searing, splitting headache and I could only open one eye. My other eye felt puffy and swollen. I saw some guy – a young hoodlum type individual sitting against the wall. A knife sticking out of the front of his shoulder. He looked absurdly pale, I saw the fear in his eyes.

It was like watching TV with one eye and no sound. I followed his gaze to see where he was looking and I saw what he saw.

My Nanna had one of his associates in a headlock with her pistol hand and was punching him in the face repeatedly with her left. Another young man was lying on the floor rubbing his forehead.

Dear Lord! My Nanna was robbing a crack house, again.

The room start to spin and all went dark.

————————————————-

I woke up in my back yard. The birds were chirping and the dogs were sitting next to me. I thought about how much the garage needs to be painted.

Nanna came out with a tray of iced tea and “Heyday” bars. She had her baking apron on and seemed barely able to hold the tray steady as the dogs went over to greet her.

“Down now you sillies” she said as she held the tray higher before setting it next to the chaise lounge and me while scolding the dogs to go away.

“Thanks Nanna” I said as I watched a squirrel taunt both of the dogs from the garage roof.

Nanna sat in the chair next to me and pulled a longneck from her apron.

“Open this for me Honey.” she said

I opened her beer for her and reached for an iced tea. “I had one hell of a dream, Nanna.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I dreamt we were in a crack house and you were . . .”

I reached for a Heyday bar before finishing my sentence and  it disappeared.

“Where’d the Heyday bar go Nanna?”

“They haven’t made those things in 30 years.”

“Huh?”

“This is your dream, Honey – we’re still in that crack house – you really need to not watch so much Monty Python, Dearie.”

My head fell back on the chaise lounge and all went black again.

(to be continued)

JohnStillmunks.com

 

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna

I stood near the security checkpoint at the airport looking toward the gates. People were coming off their flights and walking past me toward Baggage Claim as I craned my neck to see her. She was riding in the back of a golf cart. I could see the back of her head looking to her left and right repeatedly. Several marshals in those blue jackets with the yellow “U.S. Marshal” lettering were escorting the cart. They spun around frequently as they tried to observe all angles in the terminal.  4 or 5 guys in “FBI” blue jackets were limping behind the cart. A couple had their arm in a sling. All had bandages on their faces or black a eye or two.

I looked over at the marshal next to me. “They brought her in from Egypt?”

“Yep. She raised all kinds of hell there. Homeland Security wants nothing to do with her. She beat the hell out of those FBI guys.”

“She doesn’t like the FBI.”

The marshal laughed. “Apparently. What’s up with that?”

I shrugged. “Something about J. Edgar Hoover stealing her dresses.”

The marshal just stared at me. “She’s a relative of yours?”

I kept looking ahead, watching her grey hair move about as she conversed with the other marshals.  “I don’t really know.”

“How old is she?”

“I’m not real sure. I remember she was really angry with Robert Kennedy when I was little.”

“Why?”

“She said something about him ruining her boyfriend’s family business and stuff. I remember something about Cuba. Later she told me it was because he dropped her for some “broad” named Marilyn.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She’s what you call your ‘Nanna’ – how can you not know more about her? What’s up with that?”

“I think we got her from the Witness Protection Program.”

“Really?”

“I’m just not sure.”

“Well, you’re getting her back now.”

The progressively louder electric hum of the golf cart meant it was coming closer and I turned to look. It stopped right next to me. I stepped around to the back of the cart and saw her.

“Nanna!”

She looked up and tried to reach up and hug me, but the manacles slowed her down a bit. The marshals all reached in their jackets. The FBI guys yelled to “just shoot her”. Nanna rolled her eyes mockingly and smiled at me.

The marshal with me at the security checkpoint calmed everyone down. “Orders are to turn her over to you. I never want to see her again – none of us do.”

I nodded as they unlocked her and walked away after the cart sped off. Nanna flinched toward the FBI agents as they limped past and laughed heartily when they jumped.

“Egypt? Why Egypt Nanna?”

“Couldn’t resist. I told him 30 years ago I was coming back. He didn’t believe me.”

I didn’t want to know any more about that.

We walked slowly down the terminal as she relied on my arm to keep her steady.

“Hungry Nanna?”

She shook her head. Pouting. I’ve seen it before.

“How about some onion rings and shots of Patron – your favorite, right? C’mon, it’s my birthday and the Super Bowl is on.”

Nanna smiled. “Oh, I suppose.”

——————————————–

Before we stepped into the tavern, I opened the back of the van. Nanna stood her ground and crossed her arms. I pointed to the van and she shook her head. I nodded and pointed to the van.

“Everything Nanna.”

My dear sweet Nanna emptied the pockets of her jacket. Into the van went several pistols, collapsible batons, brass knuckles, knives, and so forth. Even piano wire.

“Didn’t they search you Nanna?”

“Not very well, huh baby?”

“Promise me you’ll be nice in here Nanna.”

She didn’t answer.

“Promise me, Nanna.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

As we walked inside, the Steelers scored . . .

(to be continued)

JohnStillmunks.com