Location, location, location. It is vitally important that a young artist position himself in a location in the world where the social mores of society are supportive of those inclined toward the artistic pursuits. Paris was once considered the place to be. Then New York proclaimed itself as “the place” if you are in the arts. Chicago, LA, Milan, and countless other locals have all been on the artistic map in one way or another. My hearing has always been bad, so maybe I failed to understand precisely where others were telling me to go. I grew up in Ft. Worth, Texas, went to a Junior College in Corpus Christi for 2 years, then transferred to the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. And I wandered aimlessly around the western area of the US for a year or so after that. Somehow these places do not seem to quite be in the same league as Paris or Milan.
I did attempt to make a splash in the art world of Gold Beach, Oregon, during a summer that I was working there, but I chose to mow lawns instead.
Looking back, it had been vitally important to learn about the art world firsthand, by working in the gallery in Dallas. I don’t believe the term “art gallery” was even mentioned in my 4 years of higher education. And, I’m certain the subject was never covered in depth during that time. I was decidedly bereft of knowledge and culture as I emerged from the womb of academia, especially culture that had any connection with the real world.
But before too many more years had passed, I decided I needed to go see New York, and try to acclimate myself to or ingratiate myself into the New York art world.
Walking into a gallery in New York, is an event that is at once disconcerting, and shrouded in a profound sense of mystery. And my early attempts in visiting New York convinced me that even though I was in a place where contemporary artwork was visible, I felt as if I had gone down the wrong road in getting there. I soon decided that being ill at ease was just a necessary part of the New York art gallery experience.
No one, working in any gallery I visited, ever looked up from what they were doing or glanced in my direction, or caught my eye. I also felt as if one was supposed to whisper in such a sacred and hallowed space. But even if I had been capable of formulating a coherent question, or comment, and was capable of whispering it, I doubt I would have been able to utter it. My throat was bone dry.
It must have been pretty obvious to all that I lacked the money needed to even pretend that I was going to buy something. So perhaps if I had looked the part, I might have attracted some attention. Or, maybe all transactions are done via mental telepathy, but I assume if someone comes into a gallery, truly wanting to buy a work of art, someone, somewhere, in the gallery, will deign to talk to them.
I had my own approach in navigating this unique world, which was heavily dependent on my looking serious. I always looked as serious as I could while walking around looking at art. I had decided that to do otherwise would be disrespectful of the artwork.
Speed was another factor, I stumbled upon. After entering a gallery, I would look seriously at the artwork in the gallery as quickly as possible, then look at my watch and head for the door (still looking quite serious).
I also attempted to look like I knew where I was, and where I was going… as if I was late for another more important appointment at another gallery, where I was going to continue to look seriously at still more art. However, in my heart I knew, that no one working in any of the galleries I visited really gave a damn what I did, just as long as I seriously left.
I did make some inroads into the New York art scene, in the form of receiving advice, however. The forays I made were done in the pre-computer days, long before WEBSITES or JPEGS or TIFS. In those days it was de rigueur to use slides and photos to give someone an idea of your artwork. So, I lugged a good size book of slides etc. around from gallery to gallery and it only took two and a half days to find a gallery director who would look at my work.
“Your work would do well in Chicago,” he said. I did not have a travel budget, so a few years went by before I got to Chicago. I was still carrying the same book of slides.
I was able to establish contact with a gallery in Chicago, where the gallery director looked at images of what I had made. Almost immediately, in a voice similar to the one I had heard in New York years earlier, she said, “Your work would do well in California.” “Wow, California,” I thought, and I began to imagine another trip, another gallery visit.
Amazingly, I was to hear that refrain repeated many more times…. at almost every gallery I visited during my many sojourns. Gallery people almost always had the same exact advice……only the geography was different. And, while I always felt optimistic about the next stop I would attempt to land on my artistic journey, it turned out that in general I belonged somewhere else.
Having grown up in Texas, I was aware that another sort of interaction could develop between people who work in commerce and their customers, or between a gallery and a collector. In the south, you might find a touch of the New York approach here and there, but the gallery in Dallas where I worked, was visibly manned by a beautiful, charming and friendly woman who seemed happy to see people come in the door and there was no lack of southern hospitality.
I had my work in many galleries for a number of years, and I was fascinated watching the interactions of different collectors and gallery people. I also gained many friendships with serious collectors and also with ordinary people who purchased artwork from me for the first time in their lives. Selling one’s art is a very personal experience, and while showing my work in galleries, I tried to educate myself and understand just what my roll was while in the middle of it all. And if I could, I tried to look as if I was somewhat happy to be there, And also somewhat well adjusted, so as not to cause anxiety among those who were thinking of buying something.
But my most educational experience was forged before I had sold much of anything. In general, talk is cheap amongst one’s relatives (or friends) as far as collecting art is concerned (or at least my art). But I could always count on my mother to dutifully purchase my work from time to time. She was, after all, deeply invested in it.
My work did have appeal to some, resulting in an occasional personal sale here and there. But I had had little or no real experience in selling through galleries at that point in my career, and I decided to join a small artist-run, co-op gallery in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The gallery was called Meridian Gallery, and it was located in downtown Albuquerque. This was back when very few people even went downtown (probably for good reason). This was good in some ways, as rent on our large space was quite reasonable. We all paid a monthly fee to be in the gallery and it was up to the member artists to get people to turn out at our events.
However, we did attract one down and out “connoisseur” who almost always attended our openings. An “opening” is always a good opportunity to grab something to eat, and also drink some wine, which is much more pleasant than looking at art. This fellow was more interested in the wine, however, than either food or art. He knew to look hard at the artwork on the walls or on the floor and to motion with his free hand in a circular fashion. The other hand clutched the wine glass tightly, as he signaled that he was edified with the work being presented. It was clear that he was really knowledgeable about both art and fine wines.
Meridian was already functioning when I came aboard, and I think we had around 10 or 12 members. Fortunately, most of these members were committed to the long haul.
When decisions were needed, we voted on matters, and we were constantly working on one-person shows and group shows, and from time to time, we would invite nonmember artists to show their work as well.
In many ways, it fulfilled a need, much as I imagine graduate school does. It gave us a structure in which to interact with each other and there was a free-flowing range of ideas expressed at almost every meeting.
In this environment no one was truly focusing on sales as an impetus to do our work. In fact, I would say for most of us, sales were at the bottom of the list of our priorities. I had long taken it for granted that nothing I did would ever sell. That turned out not to be the case, yet there is a certain amount of sense in approaching the subject that way. The word “volatility” comes to mind as far as art and money are concerned.
Sadly, a lot of the details of how the alligator went to Chicago are lost in the mists of time. Perhaps I was in a state of shock at my encounter with the 2 prospective collectors, but I can state unequivocally that no drugs were involved.
Some version of the events did certainly happen and to get through the fog I am in, let me just tell it this way:
It was a weekend, and it was my time to watch the gallery. Two men came in and were immediately drawn to the alligator. They spent a long time looking at this piece. A rather animated discussion ensued, and I decided to go over and introduce myself. One of the men said, “I want this alligator in the waiting room of my office.” The other man had taken the opposite side of the argument and found several problems that might make it a difficult transaction. I was able to assure the men that I would work with them to make it as easy as possible to get the sculpture to Chicago. Soon, all was agreed upon, and I had my first real sculpture sale. I do remember working on the piece and getting it ready for transport. Since I was just getting my feet in the door as far as galleries and art were concerned, I believe my prices were very reasonable, and I do not remember any difficulties after it was on its way to Chicago, nor do I remember ever hearing from my first “collector” again.
Titled “Madre de la Cienega”, the wood sculpture stood approximately 3 feet tall, was 3 feet wide and 20 feet in length. This sculpture was on exhibit at the Meridian gallery in Albuquerque probably in the later 1970’s. When I made the alligator, she was done in sections, and I seem to remember a lot of assembly, disassembly and difficulty with her transportation. I also think I remember a number of children riding on her, so perhaps she went to a school with me. With a high degree of certainty, (provided by an image of her at Meridian Gallery), I can say that she was there at Meridian toward the end of her days in Albuquerque.
I hope my alligator has had a long and happy life in the swamps, wetlands, and jungles of Chicago. And perhaps someday she will once again surface in my life.
