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| Kenneth Harris,Mattie and Maynard's Grocery,1951,Chrysler Museum of Art,Norfolk,VA |
I have a book published in 1954 titled “How to Make a Living
as a Painter,” written by Kenneth Harris, a former advertising man who was well
into his second successful career, that of a watercolor painter. The basic premise of his book is that if you
work your butt off and put low prices on your paintings, you will sell
everything you create and eventually succeed in your goal. It made sense, but was not very
encouraging. For one thing, Harris
suggests doing something like he did when he moved to Galveston,
Texas in the early-1940s. He lived primitively in a shack on the beach,
priced everything he painted at $2 to $5 and sold everything he painted. He soon got enough dough together to escape
the beach and he never looked back. No
longer a shack dweller, he repeated this basic scenario in five other regional
cities, upping his prices at each stop, and in 12 years time he could write
that he was comfortably raising a family, a wife and two children, on his painting income alone.
Avoid the dream of holding out for a one-person show in a New
York gallery, Harris sagely advised, and don't put unreasonably high prices on
your work. His
1954 rationale was, “There are very few people who can pay $1,000 for a
painting, no matter how much they want it, but there are millions who will pay
$50 to $250 for a painting that appeals to them.”
I couldn’t agree more with that point of view. I know a couple of painters from Connecticut
who live simply in a small town and make a living as full-time painters in like
manner. Each year they produce tons of
excellent landscapes, still lifes and figurative paintings on pre-stretched
cotton canvases or Masonite panels. They put
inexpensive frames on their paintings and sell them at low prices at home shows
and several outdoor art fairs in the region, including the Washington Square
Outdoor Art Exhibit in Greenwich Village. The two of them have been doing this for up
to 50 years. They fully subscribe to the
philosophy of their late mentor, a superb landscape painter who
believed that fine art should be reasonably priced and accessible to the
general public, and that seeking to get rich through the gallery labyrinth is
not the true path of the painter.
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| Tintoretto,Paradise,after 1588,74x30 feet,Palazzo Ducale, Venice |
Of course the book by Harris was written decades before Internet con games caused everybody in America to foam at the mouth at the prospect of becoming that absurd being known today as a “Daily Painter.” Tintoretto was a daily painter, too, but he was furiously knocking out mural-size paintings, not decorating 6x6 inch drink coasters with photographic images of cute puppy dogs.
As for me, I was working as a journalist when I moved to New
York City from St. Louis
in 1970. I sold my car and settled into a
nice old rent-stabilized one-bedroom apartment in a pre-war building on
Broadway in the now-fashionable Upper West Side of Manhattan.
I wasn’t concerned at the time that my
apartment had normal apartment-size windows and often poor west-northwest light
in the morning when I do my painting, without any enhancement from artificial
light, which I don’t like working under. At least the natural light is unobstructed
across the "broad way.” And I tend to
believe that if a painting is true to the light it is painted in, be it lousy
or good, it will be appreciated by a few sensitive viewers.
The city’s favorable rent laws still cover almost one
million apartments; some occupied by low-income painters like me who would love
to find more appropriate lodging, but can’t afford to move. I’m too old to live on the beach in Galveston
now – never was a beach person anyway. And
I can’t think of another city in the world with a place like The Art Students
League where, as a member, I can sketch from the live model five late
afternoons a week for free and paint from the model at low cost on Saturdays.
And while I am in complete agreement with Mr. Harris and the
two Connecticut painters with regard to selling paintings at low prices, my unfortunate,
therapy immune lack of self-esteem makes asking for anything, money for my
paintings included, an incredibly difficult task. I have been more than happy to let the few
galleries I’ve had over the years price my work. My paintings are certainly not masterpieces,
and my gut feeling is they are worth something, but not a heck of a lot in the
grand scheme of things.
How many times have I heard the admonition, “Don’t sell
yourself short.” Let’s see how I perform
when I have been cornered by a collector or a new acquaintance into selling one
of my paintings privately, rather than through a gallery:
The potential buyer who “loves my work,” will ask, “What do
you want for it?” Well, the buyer is in
my own home/studio and I can’t be rude or presumptuous, so I might say, “Oh.
give me $200.” And this for a beautiful
20x24 inch still life that I have a $200 frame for in my inventory and that I
might have sold for $2,000 if it was in one of my old galleries. “How about if I give you $150 and you throw
in the frame,” the buyer will respond.
“Oh, alright,” I’ll say, forcing a smile, all the while in mental anguish
and seething inwardly.
The buyer seems pleased as he trips out of my apartment with
the framed painting tucked under his arm.
The painting has been backed with foam board, wired for hanging and stuffed
in a big plastic garbage bag to protect it from the elements. I’m so angry with myself that I vow for the
umpteenth time never to sell privately again, and remain in a snit for
days. I would rather give the paintings
away than sell privately, and so I have on occasion. “Here, take another one with you, kind
sir. And have another as well for good measure;
they are just piling up here anyway.” How
bitter is the painter’s cup.
I once attended a lecture on this topic of making a living
as a painter that was being given by Artist’s Equity at The Art Students
League. At the time, the bouncer stationed
at the League’s front door was a big, strong black man named Washington,
who was famously known for keeping out riff-raff of even lower reputation than
those who were welcomed in for having paid their tuition or for having become members
of this hallowed institution. “Wash” caught
me stealing away from the worthless evening lecture in the second floor
gallery, and until his death years later, he always greeted me with, “Hey,
Money, how’s it going?”
Money has never been easy for me.
