Saturday last, I had the good fortune of spending the day
among ‘my people’ as it were, hawking my wares
at the East Atlanta Strut. If you were
there, you know that this year’s event was one of the biggest and best in its
(15) year existence. I’m proud of my
bit-part in that play.
I’ve discussed at length in this blog the
inner personal conflict of selling and the converse joy of making art but I
don’t think that I’ve ever truly understood either before Saturday. The barrier that had prevented me from
allowing the outside world inside my art was a fully self-constructed
insurmountable wall of fear. There is a
little paperback I read two or three times every year called Art and Fear that deals with this
apparently universal phenomenon. The
authors wholly illuminate the incredible reward of clearing that obstacle but for
years I’ve conveniently withheld comprehension of that detail so as to
reinforce that which I thought to be true – that my work wasn’t good enough. Or that it
wouldn’t sell. Or whatever myriad of
excuses I’ve thrown out over the years.
It was just too big of a risk for me.
For whatever reason early this spring, I decided that if I didn’t take on
that risk full-force now, I never probably would. And if I didn’t, I would most likely always
regret it. In spite of myself, I
sometimes tend to be a rational person and usually (occasionally) weigh risk versus
reward. I finally decided that the potential
reward far outweighed the potential risk.
And so I sat Saturday before the firing squad…
…tick, tick, tick…inside my head, time was on a death march
to nowhere. Nothing sold. My worst
doubts were rearing their ugly heads – self-actualizing my own fatalistic
prophecy. (I’m well aware of how
ridiculous this must all sound, so feel free to scoff.) The knowledge that I was publicly falling
flat on my face was consuming me. I left
Black Joe in charge and went for a
walk to clear my head, to regroup. When
I returned, I saw him fiddling with the cash box. Really?
Really. I sold my first piece of
the day and I wasn’t even there to see it!
Regardless, when Joe told me what I’d missed, that oft defended impenetrable
wall crumbled. I relaxed. I began to
enjoy the day. There was nothing but
upside from then on.
I sold one piece and then another and then two – I brought
(28) to the show and came home with (20). In between I talked to a ton of
awesome people about something that I love to do. That for me was even more rewarding than the
actual selling. I’ll probably never be a
“working” artist and I’m not sure I want to be.
The truth is Saturday could have been a complete anomaly, lightning in a
bottle or whatever. I may never sell
another piece. None of that matters
because I’ve found something that is all mine, that is all real and that no one
can take away. I cannot explain in words
how mesmerizing it is for me to have a conversation with someone who not only
appreciates but genuinely likes what I do.
I’m astonished by it really. I’m
floored by the fact that someone is willing to part with their hard-earned
dollars just to have a canvas I painted hang on their wall. It’s as satisfying and humbling an experience
as I have ever known and I’m even more motivated to continue down this
path. I’m even more convinced that what
comes out of my studio adds value to the world.
That last line might have sounded arrogant. I’ve been told that I write from a position of power, that my words are
often taken as egotistical, that I’m superior somehow. I accept that assessment as I do all
criticism, but that’s not what this is.
On the back of my business card is a level suggestion that if you don’t
look closely for you will miss. It says
“go make art”. It is an acknowledgment
that the paint and thought that I put on canvas is no more exceptional than the
art that you or anyone else is capable of.
It is only art because I used my own two hands and the wonky brain
inside my head to make it. The fact that
I chose to do it, makes it art. Everyone
on this earth is an artist if they choose to be. That shared possibility makes my everyday a little brighter. Art matters.
I’ve always been aware of that truth but I was reminded of it in a most
profound way Saturday.
If you came down to my ‘hood this weekend and I was privileged
enough to speak with you about this thing I do, please know that you left a
mark. I’m unable to fully express how
uplifted and inspired you’ve made me feel.
It’s impossible to put into words the depth of my gratitude. All of the above is yet another example of my
typically overstated method of stating the obvious – 15 September was a long overdue red letter day for this old soul.
I now have a touch point in time to go to when the real world gets in my
way. Thank you. Thank you for giving me that.
If you didn’t make it out, mark your calendars for 3
November. I’ll be at Chomp and Stomp in Cabbagetown and
we’ll chat then.
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