The Memory of Things

Here’s something I’ve been wondering. Is it possible to feel an artist’s intention through a work of art? In other words, does art hold the memory of the hands that made it?

Stop Making Sense

Yes, I know I’ve been missing in action for a couple months (no, not ready to go there yet) and now I’m hitting you up with this bit of metaphysical silliness. But the idea that things carry the memory of their creator has been on my mind for some time now.

Maybe it’s this time of year, my favorite time of year: short, cold days and long quiet nights that beg for stories to be conjured.

And so, here are a few winter stories, just for you…

One: The Art of Sushi

Years ago, my friend Quang Ho and I were eating at a sushi place we love. We sat at the bar, in front the owner, Toshi, who was making the most beautiful plates of food, each morsel a tiny mouth-watering sculpture.

Needless to say, we ate until bursting and then ate some more. Quang and Toshi, who had known each other for years, caught up on family and friends and the art world. But Toshi was visibly irritated throughout the course of our meal.

Suddenly, he nodded toward a chef at the other end of the bar and said he would never eat that man’s food. We were puzzled. The offending chef was gregarious and had the couples in front of him in stitches. Toshi shook his head, disgusted. He said that people in Japan will wait in line for hours to order sushi from their favorite chef because each chef puts his intention into the food. The gregarious chef, Toshi said, was not paying attention to his work; he was more interested in being the center of attention. Because of this, that chef’s food would surely induce indigestion.

Two: The Sound of the Ocean

I am 7 or 8 years old, standing on a beach washed in the guazy light of a summer sun, the sound of the waves lulling me into drowsy contentment.

Here, give me your hands, my father says. I reach up and he sets a conch shell on my open palms. The magnificent shell is sun-bleached on the outside but as I turn it over there, inside, it is smooth and pink and curves and spirals in on itself. What a beautiful puzzle.

Hold it to your ear, I am told. Shh. Do you hear it? That’s the sound of the ocean, the sound of the waves. The shell remembers the waves and sings when you hold it to your ear.

How sublime! And yet how sad to carry a memory as a song for anyone who picks you up to enjoy while you wait helplessly to be returned to your home.

I don’t know why I looked up this phenomenon of shells and the sound of waves, but according to an article in Live Science, Trevor Cox, a professor of acoustic engineering at the University of Salford in the United Kingdom explained it this way:

“The seashell is like a wind instrument. It has a set of resonant frequencies where the air inside the shell will vibrate more strongly. Hold the shell to your ear, and it is those frequencies in the ambient sound that get amplified. Because the sound changes, your brain pays attention to it.”

Yeah, whatever, Trevor…

Three: The Song of a Soul

Jump ahead for our next story. A tale from this summer past, remembered in the twilight moments before I drift off to sleep, my dog Buster lying next to me, his old, achy body curled up close to mine. He is warm and asleep in moments while I try to get comfortable without disturbing him. Finally, I lay a hand on his back and breathe with him, slow and deep.

In the morning, I wake carefully feeling him next to me. He doesn’t stir. This is new. He is always the first to wake but now he sleeps late and waits until the last possible moment before leaving the warmth of the bed.

He is here this week then back to stay with my ex, who doesn’t let him sleep in the bed. But even after he leaves, it’s like he’s here because I see him in the usual places and talk to him before I catch myself. Oh, right, I am talking to a memory.

How surreal, to feel his presence in his absence, in the middle of the night and throughout the day, to catch a glimpse of his ear twitching from where he normally sleeps on the couch with his paws resting over his nose.

Maybe it’s nothing more than my deep desire to have him back but the memory of him is so vivid that, for a few unhurried moments before reality comes sharply into focus, I know he is with me.

It was selfish, maybe, to keep him alive for so long. But what a burden to make a decision for a being who cannot express his own desire. His heart was giving out, the vet said. Yes, but he’s still eating and happy, I replied. My boys agreed and added, He’s happy and active, so why are you writing him off?

Looking back, I think Buster kept going because it was his job to watch over us. On the day he passed from this world, I held him and told him we would be ok, he could go. I didn’t believe a word of it.

It’s been months and here, in the heart of the winter, the physical sensation of his presence is still sentient. And no, I don’t believe in ghosts, not exactly. What I’m suggesting is that I think people, animals, and even certain objects carry a spirit–an echo, maybe–that we can feel and connect to whether the living, breathing body is there or not.

“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love. They depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog, it merely expands the heart.” -Erica Jong

Four: The Here After

My friend Cathy came over a couple weeks ago. Late afternoon coffee turned into dinner followed by cups of tea. We curled up like cats on either end of the sofa and talked into the evening. At some point, I can’t remember why or how, the conversation turned to the afterlife.

Do you believe in reincarnation, I asked, sensing she was headed there but unsure of whether to broach the topic. I do, she said, yes, I do. In fact, she added, I’ve learned I had past lives.

I do like the idea of reincarnation, partly, because I was raised Catholic and never felt satisfied with the tight-laced answers the church offered. I am now more of a traveler through other mythologies and have come to believe that if there is a god and a divine order to life, that god would have to be, first and foremost, hysterically funny and second, way, way, waaayy smarter than all of humankind put together.

So, why not past lives and the recycling of souls? It’s a rather comforting notion, isn’t it? I’ve even read that, in the ranking of past lives from young souls to old souls, when you make it to the level of dog, you’ve reached your highest incarnation and can finally come to peace. I like this idea best of all.

Five: A Creation Myth

Let’s say we are surrounded by souls and that we are souls on our own private journey just trying to figure it all out–that the physical body is a vessel from which we will move on–could that also mean that we can impart our spirit (or the impression of our spirit) into the things we touch?

People bring their own baggage to every experience especially when looking at art. I talk about this in my blog, Defending the First Artist In. But I’m not sure that fully explains the abrupt sensation an onlooker has when standing in front of certain works of art. The same can be said about music, literature and poetry, though I think visual art, because it doesn’t move past you in the same way, allows viewers to tune in differently.

Six: What the Dickens?

Maybe it’s the Ebenezer Scrooge effect. You know how Scrooge denied the first ghost of his dead business partner by telling him he was a bit of bad porridge? It took three more ghosts before Scrooge could see the path he was blindly headed down and how he had missed the true joy of connection with others. But it’s never too late!

So, what about this? What if, in the process of creating art, an artist surrenders to a truth, which is the authentic voice of his or her soul? And what if, in doing so, observers throughout time who come with open hearts and minds can take part in the experience the artist had in the creation of this art? Is it possible then that looking at art might be akin to walking with spirits?

Yes, maybe art is simply a shell that, instead of echoing the sounds of the shifting winds blowing past, reflects the mind looking in.

I think, though, because it’s winter and because I like a good tale, that maybe the objects we make with our hands, the things that we pour our life’s knowledge, understanding, intentions, and love into, maybe those things carry a piece of our soul, which can be felt and heard without words by those souls who are open and ready to settle in for a long winter’s eve to hear a story.

Wishing you the happiest of holidays. And, as always, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

Defending the First Artist In

Here’s something I don’t get. Why do people lose their minds over art they don’t personally like or understand? I’m talking, write-letters-angry. Call-your-congressman-angry. Bring-a-crowbar-to-the-exhibit-and-destroy-offending-art-angry?!

Why not just, I don’t know, leave?

I can’t speak for all curators, but many of us are trying to put shows together that have a reason for being, that do something more than lull people to sleep. We want people to see something new, to consider the world in a fresh way. And, whenever possible, we want people to feel something.

Maybe that’s the real question.

Why do people get so angry when art makes them feel an emotion?

This is nothing new, people getting their undies in a bunch over art, but in this day and age when zealots can arm themselves and destroy works of art (or attack people making that work) because it offends them, it seems like it’s time to talk about…

How to talk about art.

Years ago, while wandering through Dia Beacon, in New York, with a dear friend, we were confronted by Robert Smithson’s Map of Broken Glass (Atlantis). We were silent for a while until my friend leaned over and whispered, “That’s art?”

I’m going to admit a few things here. First, I didn’t connect the sprawling broken glass sculpture to the Robert Smithson of the Spiral Jetty fame, which is also owned and maintained by Dia.

This lack of knowledge brings me to my second admonition: Fear.

Fear of saying something stupid. Fear of sounding pretentious. Fear of not having the facts or correct terminology or even a good reason for defending something.

That day, standing in front of Smithson’s work with my kind and sophisticated friend who really didn’t get it, we had a great conversation about a pile of glass. (I know, a lot of you are dubious, but stay with me on this.)

I, like many of you, do not hold a degree in art history. My understanding is from years of research, conversations with curators and artists, and more than a few boozy evenings with arty friends discussing, arguing, complaining, and defending art.

And so, after 30 years and more than my share of tequila, I present to you a not-art-history-major’s best tips for understanding and enjoying art, whether you like it or not.

One: Understand Where Art Comes From

I don’t make art for the same reason most people don’t make art: I have nothing original to say in paint or print or clay or any other medium. It’s not my calling.

What I know for a fact after years of working with amazing artists is that it’s really hard to be original.

It’s so hard to be original that, when confronted with something stunningly original, we the viewers owe it to the world to stop and pay attention, whether it’s our cup of tea or not.

I’ll go one step further. Putting yourself in front of art, especially when it elicits an emotional reaction, is vital on a personal and societal level. Artists with truly original visions are the ones who speak the truth when others look away.

A lot of times, art (and theatre and music and film, poetry and writing) that makes us feel agitated is also making us see the world differently; it makes us reconsider our beliefs and values.

And those brave souls who created some of the most challenging works of art are people I call the “First Ones In.” These men and women made works of art born out of, as Mary Oliver called it, “the wild, silky part of ourselves.” The First Ones In did this work knowing the thing they were making would be criticized. In fact, they did it in spite of this awareness.

Two: Maybe your kid could do that BUT he didn't

Yes, there’s some crazy stuff out there that’s called “art.” I’m not part of the inner sanctum of museum curators and gallery directors who push forth sharks in glass cylinders or bananas duct-taped to walls, but I do pay attention when I feel uncomfortable, curious, or agitated by a work of art. Something important is happening here and I need to figure out what that is.

NOTE: The banana thing, in my mind, is derivative of Macel Duchamp’s piece, “Fountain.” Duchamp submitted a urinal to be displayed as a sculpture in the first Society of Independent Artists exhibition held in New York, in 1915. Though he was one of the founders of the Society, “Fountain” was rejected from the exhibit, which caused quite an uproar in the artist community because, principally, the Society was formed to create a place where all art could be exhibited and not censored. According to writing on the Tate Modern website, “Fountain” has been seen as the quintessential example of what Duchamp called “readymade” art: an originally manufactured object designated by the artist as a work of art.

Here’s some text about “Fountain” that appeared in a 1917 article called “The Richard Mutt Case,” that was published in the Blind Man and accompanied by a photograph of the original work taken by Alfred Stieglitz:

Mr Mutt’s fountain is not immoral, that is absurd, no more than a bathtub is immoral. It is a fixture that you see every day in plumbers’ shop windows. Whether Mr Mutt with his own hands made the fountain has no importance. He CHOSE it. He took an ordinary article of life, placed it so that its useful significance disappeared under the new title and point of view – created a new thought for that object.”

In a nutshell...

You would have one hell of a brilliant kid if he or she created work like Pablo Picasso, Jackson Pollock, Joan Mitchell, or Frida Khalo without prior knowledge of these artists’ existence. But your kid didn’t. The kids who made those ground breaking works only existed for a brief, beautiful time; when their lives ended, that work was complete. Everyone who’s made similar work since then is inspired by or simply copying.

This isn’t a bad thing. In fact, so much of what we see in the art world was done by artists who, as Wayne Theibaud put it, stand on the shoulders of giants. In other words, most artists have been trained by someone and have been influenced by many, many others who came before.

In this light, you can consider “Fountain” as the springboard for all kinds of compelling and annoying art like much of what Andy Warhol did by making work that became a running commentary on consumerism.

Bottom line: not all art has aesthetics as its main or only purpose in the world; sometimes it’s a protest, a nudge or a shove into modernity. It is there to make us see our world and the issues we face in a new way.

Three: Make room for the intensity of ambition

In his 2013 critique of an exhibition held at the Museum of Modern Art in New York titled, “Inventing Abstraction, 1910-1925: How a Radical Idea Changed Modern Art,“ Peter Schjeldahl wrote about the Wassily Kandinsky painting, “Impression III (Concert)”:

There is something forced, a hysteria of will, about the work, as there is about the drive of Italian Futurists to represent motion, which stumbles on the fact that paintings hold dead still. But the intensity of ambition of the Futurists and Kandinsky batters misgivings.”

Shows like “Inventing Abstraction” illustrate the very best and most important thing art–especially art we don’t understand–can do for us: it let’s us peer into the world of other cultures, times, and lives. We can read history and memorize dates, but isn’t the history of mankind made more alive with color, shape, and texture as attested to by those who possess an “intensity of ambition that batters misgivings?”

In other words, artists are searching for meaning and new forms of expression. Their work doesn’t hinge on whether you like it or not. Your job is to simply let them do their job.

Four: pause

When art makes you react, even negatively, that’s exactly when you need to stop and pay attention. Then start asking questions.

I dropped in an Agnes Marin painting here to talk about taking a breath before dismissing something or getting angry.

White paintings seem to really piss people off. Below is a video that talks about white paintings and adds some very funny clips of people getting all verklempt.

Suffice it to say, white paintings were not created to piss you off; you really didn’t figure into the creation of them. So, take a breath and consider what the painting is doing inside of you.

Some highlights of this video that I love…

“With a white painting, you have to do a lot more work,” said Elisabeth Sherman, assistant curator at the Whitney Museum, NYC. “But it can be a lot more rewarding.”

“White paintings are a fabulous kind of Rorschach test because they offer viewers an ambiguous canvas upon which they can project their own interpretation, emotions, beliefs, and stories onto,” said Dean Peterson, producer of this video.

“It very easy to be dismissive of things we’re not immediately attracted to, so if you have a negative gut reaction of defensiveness or fear or anxiety or rejection, try to move past that to see what’s available afterwards,” explained Sherman and added,

It doesn’t have to change your mind but sometimes moving through the reaction is when you learn the most about the work but also about yourself.”

All this to say that when challenged by conceptual art, ask questions. You don’t have to like it or want to live with it. In fact, whether you like it or not is completely irrelevant when it comes to experiencing art. Consider these experiences as an opportunity to do a little self-reflection.

Five: If you can't say something nice...

I think disparaging art or anything or anyone you don’t understand is a kind of intolerance that leads us down a slippery slope toward censorship, hate speech and violence. Sorry if that sounds hyperbolic, but you don’t have to look too far into our past to see the ways people have caused tremendous destruction simply over an unwillingness to accept that others have differing opinions or ways of looking at the world.

And really, life is short. Why not let yourself feel your emotions as a way to understand not only art but our collective history?

If you can’t do that, please remember the words of Thumper’s mom–go ahead, say it with me:

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Making Sense of the Price of Art

What artists and collectors need to know about the valuation of art.

I am frequently asked about the price of art. Beginning artists want to know how to get started when they don’t have a track record and established artists wonder if their prices are where they should be. Conversely, collectors want to know how an artist came up with his or her prices and if those prices are appropriate. Thus, a blog to help you do the numbers. Lots to cover, so let’s jump in.

Check for a Pulse

If you are a living artist or a collector, presumably living, and you’re wondering how art is priced, this section is for you.

(Dead artists and deceased collectors, please feel free to skip ahead. You earned it.)

Artists, god love ya, but you can be all over the map with pricing and it’s making my head spin. It’s also causing collectors to wonder if what they’re buying is worth it.

Collectors are buying a product–yes, a work of art they have fallen in love with–but it’s a luxury, which is why they compare your prices to other things they also need or want. Once collectors start doing some mental math and making comparisons, you can bet they’re going to second guess you and themselves.

So, how do you keep collectors from second guessing themselves right out of a purchase?

Excellent question.

Do you need new friends?

I’m sounding like a broken record here, but the art world is famously opaque. Let’s face it, we like obfuscation. It’s, well, arty. And fun. Really fun. Which is why I love writing this blog. The art world provides an endless well of secrets from which to draw.

Artists, here’s the deal. Collectors are smart people. We know they’re smart because they like art. Their friends know they’re smart, too. Their friends are also smart, but not necessarily interested in art, which means they’re not as smart as collectors. Are you with me?

So, these non-collector friends try to hide the fact that they don’t care about art and would rather spend their money selfishly on themselves (kidding…kind of…actually, they’re not reading this so, not kidding). And, non-collectors who haven’t invested the time and energy into learning about art try to hide this lack of savvy by making fun of the art that their collector friends have chosen.

Not cool. But it happens all the time.

Apart from the obvious solution–get new friends–the collector needs access to more knowledge about you and what you’re up to as well as some solid intel when it comes to how you price your work.

Ground Rules

In a nutshell, please adhere to the following:

1. DON’T price by the amount of time it took you. Some pieces take a ridiculous amount of time, others just flow. That’s the life of an artist; you learn to take the victories with the struggles.

2. DON’T price by how much you love the thing you just created. You will create something you love even more. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but you will. Let it go and trust in the process.

3. DON’T price based on what other artists your same age or socio-economic or education level are pricing their work at. This isn’t a race. Wish them well and get back to work.

4. DO, for the love of Pete, price consistently by the square inch. (Dead artists, hang on, I haven’t gotten to you yet.)

Ugh! Math...

Yeah, I hear ya, you went to school for art not math. Don’t worry, we’re not getting fancy here.

Step 1. Figure out the square inch, which is height x width.

8 x 10 = 80 square inches

Easy peasy.

Step 2. Assign a dollar amount. (I’ll help you figure this out next.)

Here’s what happens when you pick one amount and stick with it for every size painting you create.

8 x 10 inches = 80 x $5/sq in = $400

16 x 20 inches = 320 x $5/sq in = $1,600

30 x 40 inches = 1200 x $5/sq in = $6,000

The small ones are a little low and the big ones are kind of high.

The Sliding Scale

When you adjust by assigning the smaller works a higher square inch price and reduce that amount as you get bigger, it starts to feel more equitable. And, for lots of artists, this gets a little closer to assigning an hourly wage to the work, since creating art takes time no matter what size you’re working on.

8 x 10 inches = 80 x $10/sq in = $800

16 x 20 inches = 320 x $7/sq in = $2,240

30 x 40 inches = 1200 x $5/sq in = $6,000

Where to Start When You're Starting

My very best advice for those of you who haven’t started selling your work (and no, sales to friends and family don’t count):

Price it low, sell it fast, and use the proceeds to buy more supplies.

Here’s why. When you over-value your early work–yes, it took you a long time and you’re proud of the breakthrough pieces–buyers don’t get why a novice’s work is so expensive relative to artists who’ve been in the market a lot longer.

The next thing you know, the collector is making comparisons. End result: no sale.

Same with dealers and curators. If you price your work too high, we evaluate your work based on what’s out there, but when we check out your accomplishments and don’t find any, we know you have an unrealistic and overinflated sense of your work, and will take great offense if we even brooch the topic of prices. So, we take a hard pass.

The other really, really important thing about selling work at affordable prices when you are just starting out is that you won’t have stacks of inventory piling up. This means you won’t be hanging on to that one amazing work that is your all time best ever. Because when you hang on to the best ever thing you’ve made, it will sit in your studio and taunt you. It will whisper: You’ll never do anything better. Give up. It’s useless to continue.

When to give yourself a raise

There are a number of factors to suss out before raising your prices.

1. Consider taking a 10% increase every 1-2 years. This is a small enough amount to not be readily noticed and scare people off, but big enough that collectors can see that their “investment” in you is going up.

2. Check the economic forecast. If we’re headed into a recession, maybe hold off another year.

3. Know your client base. If you’re clients are in the tech industry, for example, consider how things are going in their world. If everything is booming, no matter what the economy is doing, you might be ok with a price increase.

NOTE: If you never take a price increase, you could see your collector base become as stagnant as your prices. Keeping your prices at the same rate may feel safe, but in the long-run, that security blanket will drag you right into obscurity. The market wants to see a recognition of your growth and success in the form of a price increase, so take it.

Can I adjust for gallery commissions

That’s a big NO.

Think of your work and the prices you command like any other commodity. There is a price it trades for, that price is listed in shows, on wall tags and websites, which means it’s verifiable. And collectors WILL verify your prices. If they see prices are higher in one place and less elsewhere, two very bad things happen.

First, buyers will go around your galleries and exhibitions and call you directly. Dealers always hear about this and will kick you out of their world faster than you can say, “Oh, crap, Rose warned me about this!” On top of that, now you’re in the position of having to haggle and sell yourself when you really should be in the studio making art.

Second, you have devalued your work to the lowest number listed anywhere your work is for sale. Why would anyone pay more?

Remember, collectors don’t always know why something is priced as it’s priced, but they are smart enough to know when things look fishy. And there are simply too many terrific artists who are being consistent with their prices; collectors don’t need to go through the hassle of figuring out a pricing system that doesn’t make sense.

Framing and other considerations

Instead of adjusting your prices to the frame, select frames that are roughly 10-15% of your retail price for that work. For example, a $1,000 painting should have a frame that cost you $100-$150.

Shipping…yeah, that’s a tough one. And now most shows won’t pay for work coming to them or going back to you. Consider investing in air float crates. They are pricy, but you can reuse them many times. Plus they weigh less than wooden crates, which are unwieldily and cost ridiculous amounts of money to send. (And often arrive damaged because delivery people drop them or run fork lifts through them….)

Buying from the dearly departed

COLLECTORS, if you’ve dipped a toe into the deceased art market, you know all bets are off when figuring out pricing.

I covered some of this in my last blog, Collect Like a Pro, which gave you all tips and tricks for navigating the market. Basically, when art hits the secondary market, the prices are determined by a few factors:

Supply and demand
Importance of that work amid the artist’s entire body of work, i.e. was it a seminal piece that marked a major turning point in the aritst’s career?
Quality of the work–is there any damage, has it been conserved, etc.
Provenance–who owned it and whether that collection was important.
Exhibitions, awards, honors, etc., for the work and the artist.

Collectors who are considering buying historically significant works would be best advised to work with an art consultant or go through a trusted gallery. There are a LOT of fakes out there. An advisor can help you find and buy work that is within your budget and has the pedigree you want for your investment.

An Art Afterlife insurance policy

ARTISTS, this is important. When you’re gone, dealers and collectors will be the judge and jury of your work using the above criteria. Remember when I said not to price things based on how much time it took you or how much you liked a work of art? It still doesn’t matter…right now; what does matter is that you keep a record of those breakthrough works and why they were important. Also, record info about your process and who you were palling around with at the time.

The things that hurt the secondary market valuation of art:

Bad auction sales
Lack of visibility in national shows
No catalogues or other critical writing about your work (i.e., astute writing by authorities in the art world)

Here are some things to do now to support the valuation of your work and boost your prices while you can enjoy the dough:

Write things down about work that is important to you.
Try to get your best work into major exhibitions so there is a record of those pieces.
Work with galleries to get prominent collectors to purchased important works.
Seek museums to collect your work, even if that means a discount or donation.

If you’re still wondering about pricing, ask fellow artists and dealers to chime in. And feel free to send me an email. I’ll take a look and give you my two-cents.

Collect Like a Pro

From genealogy searches to knowing how to sniff out pinnacle works of art, adopting the habits of serious collectors can make you a more savvy collector.

No big surprise here: art collectors are a curious breed. Curious for many reason but one of my favorites is that many believe they were born collectors, like it’s a genetic thing. (OK, personally, I kind like this theory; it makes me sound less like a common hoarder and more like, well, an eccentric hoarder.)

Collectors are also quite rare. According to research by Larry’s List published in 2015, there are just 8,000 to 10,000 art collectors in the world. The world. Seriously, there are like a bazillion people in the world, give or take, so you do the math.

By “collector,” I’m talking about people who are avidly putting together a body of work that has a focus. Often their collected works far exceed their wall space, which doesn’t phase them. Collectors are in hot pursuit of the perfect object, always, whether they’re looking or not. And, yes, they’re always looking.

There are, of course, lots more people who buy art to have a few nice things. Their buying habits are a little different than the highly dedicated collectors and range from making impulse purchases while on vacation to buying because they met the artist at an event and really like him or her.

Some buyers work with advisors or interior designers and get things that, well, match the drapery. I’m not knocking drapery or saying you’re not a real collector if you aren’t buying with some lofty goal in mind; art speaks to us all and, heck, if it happens to tie the whole room together–bonus! (OK, now I’m thinking of Jeff Lebowski’s rug, the one that tied the room together…. But I digress.)

Desperately Seeking Art Wonks

Because I love the diehards, the wonks, the nerds, and the poor souls who fall down the rabbit hole of any creative pursuit for days on end, this blog is all about what makes the hardcore art collector tick.

ARTISTS: My hope is that this will help you better understand what collectors are looking for when they buy.

ART BUYERS, PATRONS AND ENTHUSIASTS: read on for some great ideas that might help you in your own pursuit.

And so, to tackle the ins and outs of building a collection, I called on long time Denver art collector, Rob Lewis, who believes that anyone not born a collector has a hard time understanding the passion of those who are and that at the heart of the collector is an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Amen to that.

Finding Your Niche

According to Rob, the most natural place to start a collection is with things you love. Truth be told, I’m not the biggest fan of this approach as a stand-alone and write about some ways to avoid making too many costly mistakes early on. Check out: Buy What You Love or…Try This Approach Instead for ways to help refine your search.

But, at the end of the day, buying what you love and what most intrigues you is exactly how Rob started collecting, and is his best advice for novice collectors.

He went on to say that when you buy what you love, the objects you collect are imbued with personal meaning; they tell a story. Over time, these objects come to connect your life emotionally, aesthetically, intellectually, and financially.

He delineates art buyers from serious collectors in this manner:

“Collectors don’t buy things to decorate their home or office; we collect to fill our lives.”

Rob discovered his passion for the American West not long after moving to Denver. “I wanted to learn about the art that was being created in this region during the 20^th Century. It was perennially overlooked and under-appreciated. The more I learned, the more I realized that there was an incredible body of work that was readily available. I started in the early 20^th century with post-impressionism and followed the progression of Modernism to Abstract Expressionism.”

Over time, he learned to discern the quintessential examples by artists from each era. Along the way, he says he’s made many mistakes but that every mistake was an important learning experience.

It’s also expanded his world in ways he hadn’t expected when he started. “One of the most valuable benefits of collecting has been the acquaintances I’ve made. Artists, family members, scholars, curators, dealers, and most especially, other collectors. I’m truly grateful for all those who have shared their knowledge and friendship with me.”

Check out the website, Modernist West, to see more of his dedicated collection.

Good, Better, Best : Becoming a Connoisseur

Developing a great eye and aesthetic sensibilities comes with time and exposure to art through reading, visiting museums, attending lectures, and talking to experts such as curators, dealers, and other experienced collectors. In my experience, I’ve found that people in the art community are very giving with knowledge, if you ask, but they can suss out the folks who aren’t in it for the right reasons. More on this later.

“I think the art of collecting is connoisseurship,” Rob said. “You learn to distinguish between good, better, and best by looking at objects and learning why one is better than another.”

Think of connoisseurs as the ninjas of collecting; they have the ability to see which objects among an array of similar things are superior. Part of developing this knowledge comes with understanding the evolution of an artist’s career. Early on, an artist emulates his or her teachers. A connoisseur knows this and avoids buying derivative works, which will not hold as much value as the later pieces that carry the artist’s individual voice.

“A successful artist,” Rob said, “will create something truly original: a unique artistic expression. A connoisseur strived to acquire an example of an artist’s work that demonstrates the artist’s unique contribution.”

And he added, pieces you consider buying should be ones that are immediately identifiable as being by that artist.

“It should be a quintessential example at the height of their creative output. It should be a work that is closest to the moment of the artist’s unique artistic inspiration. Later works that repeat and refine the original inspiration are less satisfying.”

Quality is paramount, and yet, all too often art buyers are looking for a bargain. “A great work of art is far more valuable than a great deal,” Rob said. “Size is not the determining factor; a small gem may be far more valuable than a large, unsuccessful piece.”

Buy the Best, Avoid the Rest

Rob collects with this motto in mind: “Buy the best, avoid the rest.” He actually uses a little more colorful language, but basically, you want to get the seminal works by every artist you collect and take a hard pass on the lesser works. This is where having a focus and doing some leg work will really help, in particular, when buying work by deceased artists, which, in Rob’s case, is all he collects.

With living artist, if you are seriously wanting to get into collecting, I strongly suggest you get to know the artists whose work intrigues you.

The the most satisfied collectors I know are the ones who have developed personal relationships with the artists they collect. In so doing, everything they own has much more personal meaning. It tells a story–yes a story of the artist–but the collector gets to add his or her own story to it.

This is easier said than done, especially if you are not immersed in the art scene. And, honestly, some of the most important works done in an artist’s lifetime are sometimes the most difficult to live with; they are too confrontational or too intense. Sometimes it takes years for society to catch up with what artists are putting out in the world; it’s easier and safer for people to poo-poo something strange or radically new than it is to stand up for works of art that make others feel uncomfortable. But this is the art the connoisseur wants because it will bear witness to something very personal and, in so doing, something universal.

Because connoisseurs want quintessential works of art, they can, in their haste when something comes up for sale, be fooled by an imitation—that piece of art that was too good to be true. Knowing how much research Rob does, I was surprised by his answer when I asked if he’d ever bought a fake.

His response:

"You haven’t lived until you’ve bought a fake."

How to avoid buying a fake?

In a word: provenance.

Provenance is the record of ownership and is used to establish legitimacy of a work of art by tracing it to the source, whenever possible. If you’re buying from a living artist, provenance is easy. Your job is to keep good records should you decide to sell. With deceased artists, it can get murky and often requires some sleuthing, but this will be time well spent, especially if you can avoid a costly mistake.

When researching provenance, Rob suggests asking the following questions:

Where and when was the piece created? What were the circumstances of its creation? Was it exhibited? Where and when? Are there written reviews of its exhibition? Was it acquired by a museum or someone important? Was it stolen? Is the piece signed by the artist? Is there an inscription on the piece? Was the piece conserved or altered in any way?

Collecting on a Budget

We are all bound by our financial circumstances. Luckily, there are many places to start that do not require large sums of money, such as hand-pulled prints and photography. But again, consider first and foremost what most intrigues you. From there, Rob stresses that you should never pursue collecting for financial gain.

“If you acquire the best of the best,” he said, “and you have a bit of luck, your collection may appreciate substantially.”

Here’s a little known secret of the art world…

Lots of collectors and dealer won’t sell to someone who is buying for the wrong reasons. I know this sounds crazy, especially if you’re under the impression that everyone in the art world is starving.

The art market can be exclusionary, secretive, and opaque. It is also very small and gossipy, so much so that bargain hunters might discover that they have been blackballed on a national level from buying desirable works. They may also learn they have not even been given the opportunity to buy seminal pieces.

There are several reasons why. Bargain hunter’s collections are often replete with inferior works purchased for the autograph, not the quality. Dealers and artists don’t want important work seen amid a sea of bad art.

Second reason: no collectors want to discover their efforts in finding quintessential pieces was for naught, that those pieces have been locked away in storage. Many collectors won’t sell their best things to a rookie buyer but will instead hold out for the opportunity to place those important objects in a museum where they can be shared with a larger audience.

The third reason is that bargain hunters, simply by making low-ball offers, have shown their lack of commitment to collecting and their inferior aesthetic sensibility.

Paying a Fair Price

Part of connoisseurship is understanding the market. To build your knowledge, keep track of national sales and auction results. Over time you’ll see how works of similar sizes, by the same artist, go for very different prices–sometimes dramatically different. You’ll learn, through this exercise, what makes one work of art more desirable than all the others.

The mistake new collectors make with this information, however, is vital to understand. Pricing by the square inch is for works by living artists. Pricing of work by deceased artists is based on provenance—who owned it—and by those quintessential qualities that make that particular piece more desirable amid an artist’s entire oeuvre.

Experienced connoisseurs often know the works they want to add to their collection and where those pieces are hiding or where they were last seen. They also know that the most prized works rarely sell in a gallery or at auction; they are bought and sold quietly and discretely and only into collections where the work will be cherished, protected and available should a museum want access.

So, what do you do if you find a work of art you desperately want only to learn the price is out of your range? You have two options: pony up or walk away.

Finding Unique Objects

Collectors are hunters; they are constantly on the prowl.

“The internet is a godsend for collectors,” Rob said. “I research the period that I collect, and delve into archives to find newspaper articles, exhibition catalogues, inventories, and correspondence. I will even do genealogical searches to track down family members and colleagues. I’m in contact with dealers, galleries, auctions, curators, and scholars. And, most importantly, I communicate with other collectors.”

Know What You Don't Know

“As a collector, I have learned so much from so many,” Rob said. “I’ve had many mentors, advisors, and colleagues. It’s what makes collecting so gratifying. I have been surprised at the willingness of others to share their knowledge and insight. Everyone as an opinion, and it may not be the same as your own, but it may be valuable. You may start as a collector, but if you listen carefully, you will become a connoisseur.”

Want more about collecting? Check out these blogs:

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Building Creative Minds

In “The Long Lasting Benefits of Childhood Creativity,” published in Psychology Today, November 2021, Victoria Prowse, PhD looks at research from the National Child Development Study (NCDS) that has followed nearly every child born in the UK the first week of March 1958.

Though the study was established to learn more about infant mortality, it was extended after a few years to look at issues in education. Of the many amazing things this study has uncovered, Prowse takes a deeper look at the link between creativity in children at age 7, as noted by their teachers, and their achievements later in life.

After controlling for economic background, parenting styles, and the like, Prowse says, “Those who tested as more creative children earn more and reach higher levels of education, and tend to work in better-quality jobs that require experience.”

Yes, my friends, you read that right...

Every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you grow up. -Picasso

Most artists I know enjoy sparking creativity in children. It’s an honor, really, to pass on the creative spirit. And while working with other people’s kids is not in my wheelhouse, I so enjoyed teaching my boys to draw, paint and write, and loved joining them at play in their imaginary worlds.

But time marches on. This fall they’re off to college, which is, I find, bittersweet. I’m thrilled they are about to fly away, off on their own adventures and I feel confident, (fairly confident, anyway), that I’ve given them the tools to do so, in particular, tools that will help them see the world through a creative lens. And yet, the thought of not being able to sit around the dinner table talking about things of great importance or of little consequence, that does sting, just a bit.

Just a Hobby?

And so, with colleges selected, orientations lined up, and financial aid packages turned in, I keep reminding them of their creative penchants–one in writing, the other in photography–and have suggested that they take courses in these fields.

To my chagrin, neither is pursuing anything in the arts, not even as a minor.

I don’t know how this happened.

In fact, whenever I bring up the possibility of taking an art class even as an elective, they shrug and respond:

“Mom, that’s a hobby not a career.”

and

“You can’t make money doing that.”

But why is art a hobby? And, what’s more, how is it that even my children, who have grown up surrounded by art, who have met successful artists, and have been encouraged and praised for their artistic ability–why do they still see art as a lesser calling?

The World needs creative minds

Play Video about Temple Grandin Ted Talk

In her TedX DU talk from May 2011, Temple Grandin, expressed the need for creative/visual thinkers. Grandin is autistic and has, throughout her life, had to deal with considerable obstacles. Check out this video for her insights into how her own unique brain works.

Despite her disabilities, Grandin holds a PhD from Colorado State University and is renown in the cattle industry for revolutionizing the way animals are treated, which she was able to do because of the way her brain works.

A creative visual thinker, she realized early on that she could see solutions to problems that pattern thinkers (engineering/math-based minds) couldn’t. Grandin insists that different kinds of minds have to work together in order to see all sides of a problem.

One of the issues we face today, she believes, is the specialization of educational paths and the lack of creative training. In the linked video, she talks about the nuclear power plant disaster that occurred after a tsunami hit Japan. The brilliant engineers who designed the plant didn’t consider safe guards should a tsunami strike. A creative/visual mind, she believes, would have foreseen such an occurrence and planned for it.

If we're all born creative, how do we lose it?

I’m a big fan of Brene Brown, the social scientist who specializes in vulnerability and shame research. I highly recommend her talks and books, in particular, the audio seminar, “The Power of Vulnerability.”

Part of her research delves into the qualities of “whole-hearted” people. She describes these people as possessing the ability to embrace life to the fullest. They are healthier than most because they have learned how to shake off life’s struggles, disappointments and fears like water off a duck’s back.

One of the key characteristics that every whole-hearted person has and actively pursues as a form of expression is–you guessed it–creativity.

Brown, who has the most delightful self-deprecating sense of humor, talked about how frustrating this discovery was for her personally. She said that when friends would invite her to join them in some artistic activity, her response was an emphatic: “No thanks. You,” she would say, “can do your A-R-T but I have a J-O-B.”

Both Sides of the Coin

In her research, Brown discovered something fascinating about people who eschew creativity. They could go back to the exact day in their lives–most often in middle school–when a teacher ridiculed their attempt at art.

Shaming a child at this formative stage had, in every case, the devastating effect of shutting off the spigot of creativity.

I don’t mean to get down on teachers; it’s a tough job and they could use more support. And, sure, the negative stuff always seems to hang around in our psyche somewhere, even when we’ve also been exposed to teachers who have inspired greatness.

For me, inspiration came from Mr. Snow, my fifth grade English teacher, whose tough critiques of my writing pushed me to be better. My memory of Mr. Snow was that he treated me like a writer. Mr. Snow believed in me.

Art Finds You

I still hold out hope that my boys will take an art course or two in college and continue to flex their creative muscle, even if they consider it a hobby.

Thinking globally, however, if creativity in kids is, as the UK study suggests, an important factor for success later in life, shouldn’t we all be doing more to support access to the arts for kids?

In her April 2020 TEDx talk, Jane Werner, the director of the Pittsburg Children’s Museum, explained that children are constantly questioning their model of the world. Encouraging experimentation in kids is paramount and includes developing spaces with great design. Kids innately love design, she said, which is why they often enjoy the box their toy came in more than the toy. Joy, she added, also needs to be woven throughout kids’ experiences.

Practical ways to Inspire Creativity

Victoria Prowse suggests adults can inspire creativity by encouraging independent thinking in several ways. Try asking questions with no right or wrong answer, for example. And, give kids challenges that can’t be readily solved using the logical steps they’ve already mastered. Most importantly, support children when they are faced with resistance to their creative ideas. Not everything will be great, but recognizing originality should be encourage. The goal is to support the never ending flow of creativity.

Here are some easy ways to inspire.

Keep acrylic paint, crayons, brushes, paper, canvas, clay–anything tactile–on hand and available for kids to get into.
Less talk, more action. Skip the excessive instruction and, instead, let kids dive in and get dirty.
Jump in with them. Demonstrate the pleasure in play and experimentation through the act of creating.
Don’t be critical of kids OR of your own attempts; there doesn’t have to be a right or wrong way.
Recognize and praise individuality.
Before you offer help, encourage kids to experiment and discover on their own. The lego car or painting of a dog may not turn out anything like the diagram or photo–who cares? Art isn’t necessarily the end result; it’s the journey.
Let kids have messy spaces. This can be tough for folks who hate clutter, but for kids, it’s their sanctuary, a place where their imagination blossoms.

BONUS POINTS for adults who let kids dress themselves; this is one way we can foster self-expression and confidence from an early age.

Remember, kids are always watching grown ups; your actions and words communicate more than you know, so channel your inner Incurable Optimist, roll up your sleeves and get to play.

And, if you need help reconnecting with your own inner art child, the marketing coaching I do starts there. Reach out if you want to learn more, rosefredrick.com/contact/. I’ve got some great workshops coming up that will help. Please visit my Workshops page.

Please share your experiences and best tips for fostering creativity in young minds.

Tilting at Windmills

As one of the judges for the 2022 Breckenridge International Snow Sculpture Competition, I had the opportunity to ask a bunch of artists one of my favorite questions: Why?

In this case, WHY create art out of snow, under these conditions, knowing it’s gonna melt–that it’s probably melting as you work?! Talk about a bunch of incurable optimists….

A Container of Essence

In the art world, we’re all about collecting and preserving things that are important testaments to our life and times. And other cool shit. This ideal gets challenged hard when presented with objects that weren’t preserved properly or couldn’t be preserved–frescos, old photos, film, paintings on unstable substrates, stuff like that–or with art that was never meant to be collected in the usual way.

Sand mandalas created by Buddhist monks come to mind. In this case, the “art” is not the end result but the process that brings forth “an internal awakening to the desire to let go of attachments.” The act of wiping away the mandala, therefore, is part of the art because it completes the “letting go” process.

But, geez, there’s nothing left and hardly anyone got to see it! (And by “anyone,” I mean me.)

Earthworks and land art, in a way, are the creation of mandalas on a monumental scale. The “canvas” is nature which, for a time, allows the artist to create a transformative experience and bring attention to important issues, such as the environment. These works of art are transitory but, for the time they are around, we get to see the familiar through a different lens. Land art isn’t, in my mind, so much about letting go, however, as it is about realizing what we unwittingly let go of when we stopped caring, or weren’t paying attention.

Here’s a wonderful article in Artland Magazine, about pioneering earthwork artists.

: Agnes Denes, Wheatfield-A Confrontation, 1982, Manhattan

: Robert Smithson, Spiral Jetty, 1970, Rozel Point, Utah

: Nancy Holt, Sun Tunnels, 1973-1976, Great Basin Desert, Utah

: Christo and Jeanne-Claude, Surrounded Islands, 1980-1983, Biscayne Bay, Florida

: Andy Goldsworthy, Sycamore roots surrounded by sycamore leaves,

: Michael Heizer, City, 1972-2020, Nevada

So, you may be wondering, what kind of zen fools make art like that? Excellent question. Honestly, I don’t know. I do have a guess as to Why, though.

A Place Where Art, Nature & Booze Collide

I had the great good fortune of being asked to help judge the 2022 Breckenridge International Snow Sculpture Championships along with Alex Kendall and Tina Rossi of Breckenridge Gallery and sculptor Dwight Davidson.

I must admit, this task made me nervous. I do a fair amount of judging and jurying of art exhibits, but snow sculpture–monumental snow sculpture–was a first.

Turns out judging a new medium was the least of my concerns. I hadn’t fully accounted for the conditions. Obviously, it’s gotta be cold to sculpt snow, but this means judging happens, basically, in a meat locker. (Thus the booze, I’m thinking.)

No Pansy-ass Power Tools Allowed

The day I arrived, sculptor teams of four had already put in three grueling days carving with hand tools (power tools are strictly prohibited), on 12′ x 10′ x 10′ packed blocks of snow. That night, while I was tucked into a warm bed, many teams were working until dawn to complete their sculpture by 9:00AM when judging was scheduled to begin.

Yup, snow sculptors are some hearty folk. I’d go so far as to say that if snow sculpting were an Olympic sport, these artists would be the biathletes–you know, the crazy cross country skiers who stop every so often to shoot at, I don’t know, slower skiers? Snowboarders? (Seriously, who does that sport?)

Now that I think of it, snow sculptors would totally do that sport. All this to say, snow sculptors are tough as nails. And zen as hell.

A Quixotic Journey

Founders of the Breckenridge Snow Sculpting Championships, Rob Neyland and Ron Shelton, have competed with their own team all over the world for the last 40 years and have a bunch gold, silver, and bronze awards to prove their chops.

Their understanding of the art form and how these competitions unravel was vital knowledge for us judges.

In a nutshell: teams spitball concepts, someone is then tasked with the duty of creating a clay maquette (a miniature sculpture of the idea), the team applies to competitions, and, if juried in, they put themselves through four intensely exhausting days of carving under pressure, in extreme conditions. Fun, huh?

Here’s a pic of Rob Neyland and team’s maquette for “String Theory.”

Teams are not just competing against each other’s concept and sculpting feats, but they are also working against the elements. A bright sunny day could weaken a sculpture to the point of collapse and utter ruin. Nights that don’t adequately freeze also spell danger because the snow doesn’t have a chance to freeze and begin its transformation into its more stable crystal-like form (think of snow as very, very slow running water).

Here’s the completed sculpture. Note to man standing to the left to get a sense of scale.

And then there’s the rather dubious blocks of snow these sculptors get to carve. For example, the block provided by the Milwaukee Zoo, Rob told me, was replete with camel dung and the block in Moscow’s Gorky Park was laced with cigarette butts and beer cans.

But like the weather, funky blocks of snow are part of the challenge and the thing that ensures everyone starts on a level playing field.

FYI: Breck snow is some of the best in the world, naturally.

Here’s a pic of Team Breck’s gold-winning sculpture, “Frozen Moment,” at the Milwaukee Zoo competition. Note the lovely camel dung patina.

Cross Your Fingers

The morning of judging, Yours Truly–bright-eyed and bushy tailed (well, sober anyway)–arrived at 8:00AM, with my fellow judges to get busy sussing out the winners. Holy moly, what a transformation! The biggest change for most sculptures was that all supporting pillars of snow had been removed (check out before and after pics below).

I can only imagine how nerve-wracking that must have been, taking off the supports and hoping you got the weight ratios right. Apparently, this requires a slow and methodical approach where snow is gradually whittled down to a silver dollar-sized connection. Then, a few deep breaths and Hail Marys later, the final connection is severed about an hour before judging begins.

We judges were told that, if something collapsed into a pile of rubble before judging got under way, we could still consider that sculpture based on original concept and what we’d seen the night before. Thankfully, nothing went down in flames.

Transformative, Indeed

The thing that struck me about this whole event was that, once the sculptors put down their tools and stepped back, what remained of a 25-ton block of packed snow looked a lot like marble. There were even striations running though some works and large ice crystals that looked like chert.

Like stone, these sculptures also carried a sense of the memory of the hand that worked it, of the body that had to understand the need to go slowly, to feel and listen for the warning signs of a deep, internal fissure that might let go at the wrong moment.

There was also a sense of relief, a long exhale: the engineering worked. The temperature fluctuations were just right so that the snow became a different thing, a more solid form. The magic transformation that these sculptors listen for had happened: the dull thunking sound of hand tool against a freshly packed block of snow had taken on the singing quality of wine glasses meeting in a celebratory toast.

The Futility of Preservation

And so I asked the question of many sculptors over the days I was in Breckenridge: Why do something that can’t possibly last? Rob Neyland’s response is my favorite: “The notion of permanence is an illusion.”

Art created from snow sticks around for only a handful of days. You had to be there to make a memory, which is the only thing that remains of this art. All of which begs the question: What is art? Is it the final product or is it the effort, the performance, the motion of the body in rhythm with some flicker of an idea?

The men and women who compete in these events are artists, engineers, stone workers, restoration contractors, and other similar professions. They come for many reasons. Teams are tight-knit and have leaned over the years to move as one, in tune with each other and the sounds of the snow.

They also have a mindset grounded in humor that may stem from an understanding that all their planning and hard work could, if just one thing is off in the slightest, crumble into a heap moments before the competition ends. Which may be why they are also such soulful artists. I love what Team Germany wrote about their piece, “Float” (edited): “The subject lies in the geometric creation of order and maximum reduction to attain ‘esthetic essence’. It’s about balance and transformation. The goal of art is to develop objects for spiritual use, much as man designs objects for material use.”

How Do You Hold a Moonbeam in Your Hand?

Rob Neyland explained one of his team’s more esoteric works, titled “Water Song,” as capturing water for the briefest of moments and suspending it against the sky. He said, “We cast our fleeting form upon it but our vision is short-lived; it soon melts and resumes its journey to the sea.”

And so, as soon as the artists have set down their tools, the sculptures have already started their retreat back to ground. On the final day the exhibit is open to the public, there is a ceremonial bonfire lit within each work, hastening its journey back to the sea. The next morning, the site returns to a bustling parking lot.

I guess it’s a lot like life. No matter how hard we try to hold on, try to preserve beauty, beauty resists, beauty stays in motion. Memory, thankfully, lingers.

Maybe art is, as one sculptor put it, like a gourmet meal with friends; long after the food is gone, the joy of being together, rejoicing in the moment, stays in some permanent place inside your heart.

Wanna learn more about the Breckenridge International Snow Sculpture Championship and see who won? Here’s a link to the 2022 Guide: Click Here.

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Please Pursue Some Other Career in Life

How I discovered I was an artist

By Carm Fogt, guest blogger

Sitting in a warm summer meadow, next to a creek in Yosemite, all I can think is, what the hell did I agree to? On my lap is sketchpad. In front of me is the most gorgeous waterfall I have ever seen. Over my shoulder, my sister-in-law is gently coaxing me in her kind and patient voice saying, “Just sketch the waterfall.”

Oh my god, I think, this can’t be happening. My palms begin to sweat. I know I will never be able to draw that waterfall.

I’ve known this since grade school. I have no ability to draw or, for that matter, do anything artistic. The first realization came when I was in first grade and confronted with a mimeographed bear and a box of crayons. My exuberance couldn’t be contained inside the lines. The kids around me–the beloved rule followers–laughed at my frenetic coloring. Clearly, I was no artist.

And, if that wasn’t enough to keep me away from crayons, Elmer’s glue and construction paper for good, the TV Guide arrived weekly with that tempting ad of a little cartoon animal and the teaser: “If you can draw Winky, we’ll hook you up with art supplies and free art lessons!” I was in high school by this time, the crayon fiasco behind me, and so thought I’d give art another go. I traced the little animal, sent it in and…failed. The powers-that-be sent a short, cutting reply that read, “Please pursue some other career in life. Thank you for your entry.”

Jumping In – and I Don’t Mean the Creek

Back in the meadow, reminded of past failures, I begin to rethink the decision I made earlier in the day. It was either a hike up the 4-mile trail with my husband and his brother or sit in the valley with my Yosemite artist-in-residence sister-in-law, Janis, while she taught her daily watercolor workshop. Hike and sweat or sit and chill by the creek. It was a no brainer, right?

How is it then that a sketchpad and pencil can send me right back to the horror of being made fun of in elementary school? All I can think is, will anyone notice if I sneak out? I glance at my watch hoping it’s almost time for lunch.

But Janis is a persistent champion of art and, for some reason, she thinks I can draw Yosemite Falls. I had confessed my insecurities to her before we started; thankfully she didn’t laugh. Instead, she suggested that when I noticed something in my drawing that was out of whack, I should simply erase that part and fix it. She said that my eye would tell me what to do.

My eye? What? Now it was me trying not to laugh at her. Seriously, erasers are allowed? No way. You mean that people who can draw–real artists–use erasers?!

Incredulously, I start. I draw and erase and draw some more until I make something that looks like the waterfall. But something else begins to take hold. Suddenly, I’m living in the moment; I’m a part of the creative flow. Years of doubt, years of believing what others told me are erased like a badly placed line.

That Was It

Over the next couple hours, I lose my anxiety over putting down a mark. Just as Janis said, it wasn’t permanent. I have unlimited do-overs. My hand relaxes and does what my eyes tell it to. I am completely engrossed.

The sun sinks low in the west, mosquitoes start to buzz around me, and yet I just don’t want to leave, I don’t want the magic feeling to end.

Back in the cabin, I search for something to draw, light upon my well-worn sneakers and start drawing them. Soon I’m drawing just about everything in the cabin.

Thus began my journey into art. I drew that waterfall. I drew Half Dome. I drew chairs, shoes, people (well, almost people). It was a miracle. I could draw and I loved doing it!

How could this be? I couldn’t do it before. Why now? Why here? All those years wasted, believing something that wasn’t true. I had always thought it was strange that my mom could draw, so could my nephew, but the rest of the family, it seemed, were just missing the art gene. Or so I thought.

If I Could Turn Back Time

How strange that just a few dings on my young ego were all it took to steer me away from ever trying art again. Why did this happen so easily and so firmly? Thankfully, albeit, years later in life, all it took was a little encouragement from a trusted instructor to turn it around.

And it wasn’t just encouragement and kind words; Janis gave me permission to fail.

I wonder, would the world even have art if artists didn’t know they had permission to make mistakes and erase them, start over, let go of what didn’t work and keep searching until they found the right path?

What Janis shook loose in me started a journey that took me to Asia to study with master brush painters. I don’t know exactly why their work captured my imagination, but that first trip, the artists I met, the instructors and the creative atmosphere brought me to a place that I never would have found had there not been a warm meadow and a kind-hearted instructor to coax it out of me.

Lifting My Brush with Confidence

I can’t turn back time, of course, but I can look to the future. I can give children the encouragement they need to pursue their innate love of creativity. And I can keep pursuing this career.

Maybe that’s what caught my imagination when I began learning Chinese brush painting: a quick brush with something negative could turn into a lifelong false belief just as easily as a quick brush with something positive might turn into a lifelong pursuit.

To see more of Carm Fogt’s work, please visit her website, https://www.carmfogt.net.

Interested in being a guest blogger?

Email with your ideas or consider taking a blogging workshop with me. For more information about workshops and blogging, please check out my Workshops page.

Standing Next to Myself, with Questions

I’ve had, for years, the strangest surrealist moments sparked by catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror or reflection in a shop window. It can be startling, this dissociative, out-of-body experience, wherein the image before me does not correlate with the image in my mind’s eye.

Plainly put: I don’t know what I look like.

It’s as if I’ve been blocked out, like Rene Magritte’s (1898-1967) figure behind the apple in “Son of Man,” and only know my face as the apple. Then, on occasion and for reasons unbeknownst to me, the apple disappears, revealing a face I hadn’t expected.

Magritte’s explanation of this painting may shed some light:

“Everything we see hides another thing. We always want to see what is hidden by what we see. There is an interest in that which is hidden and which the visible does not show us. This interest can take the form of a quite intense feeling, a sort of conflict, one might say, between the visible that is hidden and the visible that is present.”

When Art Imitates Life

Studies indicate that both men and women spend nearly an hour a day looking at themselves in a mirror. I’ve never timed myself but suspect I’m not all that different. So why, I’ve often wondered, is my reality so skewed from my internal knowing?

From the website, ReneMagritte.org, here’s an interesting bit of insight into the artist’s train of thought:

“…what is concealed is more important than what is open to view: this was true both of his own fears and of his manner of depicting the mysterious. [His paintings were] not so much to hide as to achieve an effect of alienation.”

Right. So, according to Magritte, I’m actually being startled by “the visible that is hidden”?

Dang. Those surrealists were deep.

Alienation

During WWII, Magritte lived in German-occupied Belgium, apart from his fellow surrealists who remained in Paris. Feeling alienated and abandoned, Magritte supported himself by painting fake van Goghs, Picassos, Cezannes, and others.

I wonder about this choice, to be a forger as means of survival. Was it simply an obvious way of making money? Or was it part of Magritte’s journey deeper into his own vision? Would his own post-war works have been as poignant had he not forged paintings in the manner of these artists? Did the act of creating forgeries help him understand something essential about each person he emulated, thereby unearthing elements of his own personality?

Or maybe he just kicked ass mimicking others and didn’t want to starve to death.

Oh! OK, fun fact: Magritte got so good at forgeries that he was able to create fake bank notes during the occupation, which he and his family lived on. And, apparently, the forgery biz was so lucrative that Magritte’s brother, Paul, took over when Rene went back to making an honest living. Who knew?

The war undoubtedly affected Magritte, but not his form of expression. Surrealism was the visual dialogue introduced to him in Paris by Andre Breton, the founder of the movement, years before the war, and the style Magritte rarely if ever strayed from. Magritte insisted that his work was meant to push viewers to question their sense of reality and become hypersensitive to the world around them.

I would add that his paintings force the viewer to become hypersensitive to the world within, as well.

Hidden in Plain Sight

As straightforward as Magritte’s comments about each work are, there are still layers to peel back.

Like the shrouded figures. Some suggest that these stem from memories of seeing his drowned mother, who had committed suicide, pulled from the river near their home, her dress covering her face, like a shroud. Magritte was 13 when he witnessed this.

I’m not a scholar on Magritte but I do wonder how much of his work, if any, is about something other than his past and this loss.

Learning to See

Viewing art is not a passive act. The viewer may be standing quietly, absorbing images, but inside neurons are firing, electrical impulses are kicking in, surging through the body, in particular when memories are triggered, reminding the viewer of something personal. Here’s an interesting article about all the amazing things happening in the body when viewing art: Art Enhances Brain Function and Well-being.

For me, Magritte’s work triggers an internal recognition, a jolt from a kindred spirit in pursuit of the real within the obscured or shrouded, a connection to the floating parts of ourselves, light signals from the transfigured imagination.

Baggage Is Part of the Experience

I’ve lived with this sense of not knowing what I look like or, worse, believing that I’m sitting in an important meeting, not as the middle-aged professional curator I am, but as a pudgy child with stringy hair and bad skin.

I see, in my head, the frumpy, naive girl my mother always told me I was. (Still, to this day, given the opportunity, she never misses the chance to land a blow with an abusive jab.)

For much of my life, the surprise was looking in a mirror and not seeing that girl.

This personal dogma is what I’ve bought to the mirror and carried throughout my life. When told anything counter to this belief, I rejected it out of hand, certain that these flatterers were idiots and scammers.

And then, for some reason, the world shifted during Covid; disassembled “me” began to pull together.

The True Gift of Art

I tossed out the word, “dissociative,” not to be hyperbolic but to express this weirdly surreal aspect of my nature, this not knowing my own image in a mirror. It’s a strange thing to believe what others say about you to the point of losing yourself, and yet I know so many people experience this. It’s how we lose our way in this life.

Art, artists, and therapy have helped nudge me toward a rethinking of my beliefs, so that the most tender spots in my psyche can be examined and healed.

And, as strange as it may sound, when I work with artists on marketing, we always start by excavating their “why.”

On the surface, this is because I can’t help a person market what they themselves cannot recognize. Yes, every artist can talk about materials and technique, but that’s not what collectors are buying. Collectors are buying an idea. They are buying a piece of the artist.

It’s an amazing gift to be present with creative people as they take on the task of self-interrogation. The process can be messy and emotional and confounding (much as my own self-innterogation has been), but always the journey back to center–back to the reason one became an artist in the first place–is such a glorious awakening.

Freeing the Artist Within

I have come to believe, thanks to many candid conversations with artists, that the act of making art, in its purest sense, is self-interrogation. If the artist is being true to his or her nature, every painting, photograph, or sculpture is a self-portrait. Sometimes these self-portraits are so revealing they are terrifying. And yet, the artist persists.

Art is also a kind of panacea, a prescription for a drug that pulls one closer to his or her core being. No artist can predict who will take what message or cue from a work of art; that’s not the point of it, really.

The point is to expose the artist’s self, and through that act, the viewer can finally set down her baggage, look in the mirror and see the person who was there all along.

If you’d like to continue this conversation, please leave a comment below. And feel free to share my blog with friends.

If you are interested in looking into marketing for artists, please reach out and contact me to discuss further.

Making a Case for Contemporary Western Art

In the summer of 1996, I was hired to curate a small, regional show in Denver, at the National Western Stock Show. During the Stock Show and Rodeo. In January.

I had never been to either the fledgling Coors Western Art Exhibit & Sale or the Stock Show, but the idea of an art exhibit in such an off-beat, unexpected venue struck me as a unique and exciting challenge.

Obvious hurdles aside, (a blizzard shutting down the city on opening night, for starters), I enjoyed puzzling out the curatorial questions that came with this show, such as, how do I get successful artists to participate in an exhibit held at a stock show and rodeo? How is Western art defined? Is there room to broaden the conversation within that definition? Could I invite artists who didn’t create traditional fare but were technically “western” artists because they lived and worked in the West?

Could I, I wondered, blur the lines between traditional and contemporary art?

What’s Scarier Than Naked Women?

Back in the early days, the Coors Show was flying under the radar. I took this opportunity to try out my theories about pushing boundaries with artists whose work didn’t fall squarely within the stricture of “Western.” It helped that I had few guidelines to follow beyond finding living artists whose work reflected the Western way of life. We were a fine art show that included photography but not crafts such as pottery. Oh, and no nudes; strictly PG.

Taking on an unknown show at an unproven venue meant that I had little or no shot at getting the big names in traditional Western art. Yes, I tried getting them, but they were busy or didn’t return my call. I couldn’t blame them. The Autry had the Masters of the American West, and the Cowboy Hall was killing it with the Prix de West. Great exhibits that showcased the best in traditional Western art. The tiny Coors Show simply could not compete.

I rang up old friends, explained my idea of opening up the conversation about the West and the art that’s being made here, and was able to get Len Chmiel, Skip Whitcomb, George Carlson, Steve Kestrel, and others to come on board. They lent their good names and reputations to help me jumpstart the show. Lots of artists who saw those names on the roster gave us a second look. Still not the traditional artist, though. But I was OK with this. I had other ideas in mind.

Two Roads Diverge

In the art world, when you toss out the word “contemporary,” people hear things like “abstract,” “challenging,” “confrontational,” and “hard to understand.” Say “Western” and slap “art” onto it, however, and people see illustrative works that tell stories, ala Charlie Russell and Fredric Remington. Western is definable; you know it when you see it. Contemporary, well, that’s out there in the wilderness making stuff up and getting all emotional about it.

Despite the rift between philosophies—traditional vs. contemporary—finding a singular path for the Coors Show was top on my list. I wanted artists who were the best at what they did, who took on subject matter with masterful skill and conviction. I wanted artists who were unafraid to be authentic, even vulnerable.

The other thing I really wanted to build was a show that gave voice to our great artists who didn’t fit neatly into either traditional or contemporary venues. I wanted to show Daniel Sprick and Dean Mitchell alongside William Matthews and Barbara Van Cleve.

More importantly, I saw a niche in the market no one was tapping into: a contemporary-realist focused exhibit about the West. The only catch was I couldn’t use the word “contemporary.” Not at first, anyway.

How to Offend a Curator

I look at the art of curation much like throwing interesting dinner parties where disparate guests discover they have a lot in common. Or things devolve into fisticuffs. Either way, I’m happy. The idea of curation, in my mind, is to create opportunities for conversations that get people talking. Even better, opportunities to show my audience their familiar surroundings in a new way. Putting contemporary art alongside traditional work, well that, my friend, is a heck of a dinner party!

I will admit, my open arms approach has ruffled a few feathers. I get it; art is personal, but the extent to which some folks have gotten upset about art, at times, has surprised even me.

One of my favorite stories happened the year I hung Theresa Elliot’s hyper-realistic cattle paintings (think the Mona Lisa, if she were a cow), across from Ted Waddell (think Motherwell meets cattle). An old rancher came in, found a volunteer to let her know he was there because he felt he needed to come see the art show each year. She graciously welcomed him and let him know she could help if he needed anything. Not too many steps into the gallery and he was confronted with Theresa and Ted. He stood there a long while then went back to the volunteer and made her join him between the works. He pointed to Theresa’s paintings and said, “These paintings are incredible.” Then, turning to Ted’s work, he said, “But these! These are a colossal waste of paint!”

The volunteer was afraid to tell me this story, but when she did, I hugged her. This is what curators live for: eliciting a response, evoking emotion. That rancher really looked at the art and had a reaction. Western art got under his skin and made him feel something!

When was I offended? That happened when a local art critic whose opinion I valued (and still do) wrote something to the effect of, “the show is filled with bucolic paintings.” Bucolic! Here again the volunteers who happily taped the review in the breakroom at the gallery, were stunned that I’d taken offense. Bucolic. She might as well have said I lulled patrons to sleep with my vanilla curation.

After that review, I redoubled my efforts to bring interesting and thought-provoking work to my audience. Not to offend, I really don’t want to offend anyone, but to present ideas and a unique lens with which to view the familiar.

Crossing the Line

The amazing thing about having a show in a non-traditional setting like the National Western, is that nearly 40,000 visitors from a diverse cross-section of our western population stop by. Because our audience is made up of people who live and breathe the western way of life, I believe we owe them authenticity. Traditional or contemporary—these things are stylistic choices. Authenticity is a core principle. The very nature of being an artist is to take on subject matter with masterful skill and conviction. But also, to be unafraid to be authentic, even vulnerable.

Many Coors Show artists were born and raised in a traditional western home. Don Coen, for example, grew up in Lamar, CO on a working ranch that, until he turned 12, had no running water or electricity. His only complaint was that he had to ride a horse to school—all his friends had bikes. But Don, like others in the show, puts the exploration of what it truly means to live in the West first. He knows why he’s creating this work: it’s intrinsic to who he is and decidedly not what he thinks the market wants.

Another tenet of my curation: if we’re going to show work about Native Americans it needs to be created by Native American artists. In a conversation with Denver Art Museum assistant curator of Native American Art, Dakota Hoska, on the triggering effect of traditional Western art that depicts Indigenous people in historic settings, she said, “Romanticized art has the effect of flattening the Native American experience. It’s reductive. They want to paint our culture but only the part before someone tried to destroy us. Our people were here 13,000 to 50,000 years before white people showed up; we never got to see how our society would have ended up.”

And, as Donna Chrisjohn, co-chair of the Denver American Indian Commission, said of Fredric Remington’s stereotypical portraits of American Indians, “it leaves us frozen in time and largely contributes to our invisibility today.”

These days, I ask why. Why is an artist doing this work? Why now? Why are they the ones to tell the story? As curator for the Coors Show, I believe it’s my responsibility to present contemporary artists of all walks of life and allow them to hold the stage and tell their story. I am consistently buoyed by the support of collectors, especially younger collectors, who seek out contemporary, authentic voices.

Looking to the future, I would love to see more open mindedness and space for alternative—yes, contemporary—voices to be heard. I truly believe, for Western artists, this is the only way our genre will be recognized in the larger arena and ultimately, stay relevant for the next 100 years.

How to buy and sell art at auction

If you’re a collector, chances are you’ve considered selling off a painting or two at auction to free up some space or make a little cash, naturally, to buy more art. Undoubtedly, along the way, you’ve discovered that it’s way more fun to buy than sell.

This time around, I take a deep dive into the world of auctions, bringing you some insider knowledge about how things work, what leverage, if any, you might have, and how to strategically buy and sell in what has become, according to the Wall Street Journal, one of the “hottest markets on earth.”

The Bane of Artists Everywhere

Just to put things into perspective…most collectors don’t realize that auctions are nerve-wracking as hell for artists. I personally avoid adding them to any selling show I work on because I have no desire to put artists in a situation where the work will be undersold and therefore compromised.

I have said this before but it bears repeating: discounting art erodes the artist’s market value. The collector buying at a discount feels they have gotten a good deal, but what they’ve really done is establish that the artist’s work is not worth the stated price.

While work by deceased artists–especially those rare pieces that hit it big–make auctions look like a boon for artists’ careers, the reality is that, for living artists, it’s the place collectors have discovered they can buy on the cheap.

OK, I am now stepping off my soapbox.

The following is an article that will run in Western Art & Architecture, winter 2021/2022. I interviewed collector Doug Erion to get his best tips and tricks, as well as Jennifer Vorbach, former auctioneer and International Director of Christie’s Post War and Contemporary art department, for a little insider intel.

NOTE: I specifically wanted to talk to an auction expert who no longer worked for an auction house. My hope was to get an unvarnished look at the inner workings, which Jennifer provided. To learn more about Jennifer Vorbach, check out her website: JenniferVorbach.com.

Why Auction Results Matter

Did you know that, when establishing valuations for art for most appraisals, auction records play a very big role–a bigger role than I personally think they should (not that anyone’s asking). Appraisals for insurance coverage, a.k.a., replacement cost, are based on retail sales figures. However, for estate, resale, and donation appraisals, valuation is almost solely determined based on auction and previous recorded sales. The difference between retail price and auction results can be astoundingly different.

If you’re thinking this is no big deal, consider that collectors look at those auction records to determine whether your retail prices are appropriate, and thus, whether they should buy your work or not.

And those auction records? They live forever online.

So, how can artists get auctions to support their pricing structure and not hurt valuation by letting work sell below retail?

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer. For Blue Chip artists, galleries and/or collectors with a dog in the fight, i.e., a financial investment in an artist’s career, attend auctions, bid up the work, and buy, if necessary. Honestly, I’ve often wondered why galleries don’t do more of this with prominent artists in their sable. Sure it’s pricey, but in the long run it would bolster their artists’ careers.

The Sell-side: Auction vs. Gallery

Auctions are, by art world standards, transparent. Art is put up for sale. It is photographed, condition reported, vetted, and analyzed for value based on myriad details ranging from the artist’s importance to the work’s place within the artist’s oeuvre. By law, the reserve cannot be higher than the low estimate. Sales are done in a public forum, now made global by the internet. Generally, both buyer and seller pay a premium to the auction house.

Gallery sales, on the other hand, are opaque, private transactions. There is a set price for the art, usually decided upon by the artist with his dealer’s input. However, should there be any haggling and deal-making, which can happen along the way to the final transaction, that’s kept on the down-low, primarily to keep the integrity of the artist’s pricing structure intact.

Risk and Reward

For sellers, working with a gallery is often considered less risky. Both collector and dealer agree on the resale price and the commission rate, which can be anywhere from 10-40%. And, while some works of art might have gone up dramatically over the years, most work won’t appreciate to the degree that the collector sees much of a profit after commissions are paid and might even take a loss.

By contrast, auction houses set prices in a range, starting at what can be a terrifyingly low estimate—a number that makes lots of resellers back away. The strategy is two-fold, according to Jennifer Vorbach, former auctioneer and International Director of Post-War and Contemporary art for Christie’s and now a private consultant. “The auction wants to make it competitive, to get as many bidders as possible,” she said. “And it tends to work. Lower starting estimates also allow the auction house to gather and use statistics like, 50% of our lots exceeded their mid-estimates, and 50% sold above the estimate. The auction house then use those statistics competitively.”

Can the seller set the reserve, you wonder? The answer is yes. And no. If a work is of high value and desirable, the seller can negotiate a higher minimum, as well as lower or no premium payment to the auction on the sale, and even receive prime placement in the sale’s line-up (earlier is better, to get bidders while they’re fresh, and the excitement is high). “Everything is negotiable,” Jennifer said, “but if the auction house is not keen on the art, they won’t give you an attractive estimate or even take the work.”

Should you shop work around to several houses to get the best deal? According to Jennifer, if you have a good relationship with one auction, it’s best to deal with the house you know. If you do decide to shop around, she warns, be prepared for competing houses to whisper disparaging things about your art, especially high-profile pieces, something she has seen happen. An auction might cast doubts to steer buyers away from a rival house. “It’s very competitive,” she said.

Perhaps the biggest benefit auction houses can offer over individual galleries is their immense mailing lists and knowledge of buyers. Auctions further create excitement and anticipation for upcoming sales by sending out gorgeous catalogues and posting them online. Plus, the news stories generated from record-breaking sales help add to the fervor.

Fickle Fashion of the Art Market

No matter where you chose to resell art, gallery or auction, you should bone-up on the market before making a decision. Because, while you may think the worst-case scenario is that your art doesn’t sell, the reality is that you may have just “burned” your art.

Auction results are reported publicly, and those reports, as I mentioned earlier, last forever. Anyone can look them up and see how sales went. What they can’t see is why things didn’t sell, or were “bought in.” And so, for years to come, there will be a shadow of doubt hovering over work that didn’t sell, so much so, that should you try to sell the work again, the estimate could be listed lower than your first attempt.

Art is also subject to fashion trends. Jennifer noted how Helen Frankenthaler who, after a major show of her work at the Museum of Modern Art, in New York, suddenly lost her edge. “There was so much of her work in one place,” Jennifer explained, “the works canceled each other out. But, as the art world revolves, other painters of her generation and previously neglected artists—often women and artists of color—have had the spotlight turned on them. Now her work is very much back in demand.”

Blurring the Boundaries: Guarantees and Private Treaty Sales

Over the last two decades, auction houses have crowded into gallery territory in two major ways: private treaty sales and guaranteed sales. Though neither is a brand-new concept, the prevalence has caused a shift in galleries as they respond to the competition. Basically, private treaty sales are done directly between seller and buyer without ever going to auction. The auction has a tremendous advantage over galleries because they have a deep list of collectors to call on, and they know not only who won works by the same artist, but they know the under-bidders. Like galleries, these sales are much less transparent, and they are not reported.

Guarantees are another way auction houses compete with fellow houses but also with galleries by taking out the risk in the sale. Here, the auction guarantees the selling price. If the work of art goes for less than the guaranteed price, the seller still makes his amount. And, if it goes for above the guarantee, the seller not only makes his number, but gets a portion of the upside, as does the grantor. Buyers can see if a work has a guarantee; it will be listed in the catalogue, albeit, in very, very fine print.

Fun and Games: Buying at Auction

OK, seriously, auctions are great entertainment. They have a certain air of a casino attached to them: some art goes big, some craps out. So, what’s the best strategy for getting what you want?

According to collector and auction denizen, Doug Erion, the key is research, research, and more research.

Because of his dogged approach, Doug knows where a lot of work is, which has made it possible for him to swoop in and grab pieces others may not have realized were coming up for sale. Case in point was a Helen Frankenthaler print, one of which resides in the Tate Modern collection. “The Tate has a nice long video about how that print was built,” he said. “Frankenthaler uses many layers; it doesn’t look like it. The video shows how she did this one particular piece. Would I have bought the piece otherwise? Probably, it’s spectacular. But seeing that video and knowing the Tate owns one, pushed it up in my mind.”

It’s also important to note that Doug’s attitude toward auctions informs his strategy. “I go to auctions because of availability,” he said, “not for the lowest price.”

For expensive works, he often calls the auction house and requests a condition report. With prints, which he’s been predominately collecting at auction these days, he’s concerned with foxing or discoloration of the paper. So, if the print is framed and damage not readily apparent, he asks that the frame be removed to confirm the condition. Yup, you can actually do that.

If a piece is not expensive, he will put in a conservative bid for the amount he is willing to pay up to. “If the bidding goes past, no problem,” he says. By doing this, he keeps from getting too invested in the outcome, and so won’t overspend in the heat of competition.

If it’s something he really wants, he will determine the amount he’s willing to pay over and above the high estimate. Sometimes he mans the bidding process, but usually he prefers to have a trusted advisor bid for him, again, with the intention of not going too far over his budgeted amount, unless the situation warrants.

The Bottom Line

If you’re new to auctions or find them frustrating, consider hiring someone like Jennifer Vorbach to help. Often, an expert who knows her way around the auction scene can work magic, open doors, and even find things you haven’t had any luck tracking down on your own. At a minimum, understand that reselling work is not as easy as buying so do your homework, ask questions, and learn how individual auctions work (terms vary from house to house). Most importantly, set realistic expectations.

Essays on Art