How To Talk To A Dog Figurines Artist

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How To Talk To A Dog Figurines Artist

t was the moment all artists dream about: a major sale of a major work, one that would pay the studio rent for months and put a breakthrough piece in the home of important collectors. But for Tony Bechara, the dream sale was followed by a nightmarish query. The purchasers had discovered that the painting was too large to fit over their sofa: “Could you cut four inches off to make it work?” inquired their secretary.

Before Bechara could compose himself, he had replied, “Why don’t they cut their sofa down instead?” and hung up the phone. He was still composing his apology when the couple called back with a surprise concession: “That was a great idea! We took the legs off, and the painting fits perfectly.”

Bechara’s story ended happily, but many artists can recount a similar tale, a memory that causes their eyes to flash long after the original encounter. An awkward comment about the size, price, or content of a work can feel like a scalding judgment even to the most secure and self-confident artist.
Compounding the delicacy of such interactions is the fact that nonartists often feel equally insecure. “Many of the artists I know speak in insider jargon, even to civilians,” says painter Barbara Rogers. “There might be more sales of artwork and support for artists if they could be a bit more sensitive to people who like art but don’t want to feel foolish talking with them.”

So how exactly do you talk to a sculptor about the bodily substances oozing from her piece; or to a painter about the larger-than-life kittens standing guard over a peanut butter sandwich in his picture; or to a video artist about the eternal flames perpetually licking at the protagonist in her latest work; or to a draftsman about his obsessively gridded drawings?

First, a few examples of what not to say:

Are you a contemporary artist? All living artists are contemporary.

What movement did you join? Movements are art-historical labels, usually applied in retrospect to artists long departed from the scene. And don’t worry about being able to place an artist in a specific category. “People want to define you and say what you are and what you do,” says Faith Ringgold, who works in a range of media, from quilting to painting to illustrated children’s books. “That’s why I like being an artist—because I get to define who I am and what I do.”
You’re an artist? Oils or acrylic? There are many forms of expression that fall outside the traditional categories of easel painting. A simple “Tell me about your work” is preferable.

Do you own your own gallery? Artists usually do not own galleries; they work in studios. The two are very different.

Do you have any extra pictures you don’t want? Do you ask bankers if they have any extra money they don’t want?
Your work is exactly like so-and-sos. “Do you mean I’m not original? I’m derivative?” worries the artist.

It must be fun to play all the time. When do you actually work? Ouch! This question is universally loathed. Artists understand very well that they’re not coal miners, schoolteachers, or insurance adjusters. But they work very hard—and consider their work to be work, not play.

And the corollary: What do you do for a living? The goal of almost all artists is to make their art pay for itself, though many have to supplement their income in other ways. But making art is what they do for a living.

Do you work at home? Artists hear this question as a kind of test: answer yes and you’re a hobbyist. The places artists work shouldn’t define the quality of their work.

Is this finished? Just assume a work is finished—unless told otherwise. (Remember how you felt as a teenager when your mother would ask, “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”) Similarly, inquiring about how a piece is displayed can be dangerous. “Is this supposed to be on the floor?” a viewer once asked Polly Apfelbaum, an artist renowned for complex floor installations she calls fallen paintings.

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t was the moment all artists dream about: a major sale of a major work, one that would pay the studio rent for months and put a breakthrough piece in the home of important collectors. But for Tony Bechara, the dream sale was followed by a nightmarish query. The purchasers had discovered that the painting was too large to fit over their sofa: “Could you cut four inches off to make it work?” inquired their secretary.

Before Bechara could compose himself, he had replied, “Why don’t they cut their sofa down instead?” and hung up the phone. He was still composing his apology when the couple called back with a surprise concession: “That was a great idea! We took the legs off, and the painting fits perfectly.”

Bechara’s story ended happily, but many artists can recount a similar tale, a memory that causes their eyes to flash long after the original encounter. An awkward comment about the size, price, or content of a work can feel like a scalding judgment even to the most secure and self-confident artist.
Compounding the delicacy of such interactions is the fact that nonartists often feel equally insecure. “Many of the artists I know speak in insider jargon, even to civilians,” says painter Barbara Rogers. “There might be more sales of artwork and support for artists if they could be a bit more sensitive to people who like art but don’t want to feel foolish talking with them.”

So how exactly do you talk to a sculptor about the bodily substances oozing from her piece; or to a painter about the larger-than-life kittens standing guard over a peanut butter sandwich in his picture; or to a video artist about the eternal flames perpetually licking at the protagonist in her latest work; or to a draftsman about his obsessively gridded drawings?

First, a few examples of what not to say:

Are you a contemporary artist? All living artists are contemporary.

What movement did you join? Movements are art-historical labels, usually applied in retrospect to artists long departed from the scene. And don’t worry about being able to place an artist in a specific category. “People want to define you and say what you are and what you do,” says Faith Ringgold, who works in a range of media, from quilting to painting to illustrated children’s books. “That’s why I like being an artist—because I get to define who I am and what I do.”
You’re an artist? Oils or acrylic? There are many forms of expression that fall outside the traditional categories of easel painting. A simple “Tell me about your work” is preferable.

Do you own your own gallery? Artists usually do not own galleries; they work in studios. The two are very different.

Do you have any extra pictures you don’t want? Do you ask bankers if they have any extra money they don’t want?
Your work is exactly like so-and-sos. “Do you mean I’m not original? I’m derivative?” worries the artist.

It must be fun to play all the time. When do you actually work? Ouch! This question is universally loathed. Artists understand very well that they’re not coal miners, schoolteachers, or insurance adjusters. But they work very hard—and consider their work to be work, not play.

And the corollary: What do you do for a living? The goal of almost all artists is to make their art pay for itself, though many have to supplement their income in other ways. But making art is what they do for a living.

Do you work at home? Artists hear this question as a kind of test: answer yes and you’re a hobbyist. The places artists work shouldn’t define the quality of their work.

Is this finished? Just assume a work is finished—unless told otherwise. (Remember how you felt as a teenager when your mother would ask, “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”) Similarly, inquiring about how a piece is displayed can be dangerous. “Is this supposed to be on the floor?” a viewer once asked Polly Apfelbaum, an artist renowned for complex floor installations she calls fallen paintings.

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