I understand why some artists eschew all societal responsibilities and interactions, and why some refuse to promote the work they are themselves creating. On the other hand I know that if, for example, a painter does not sell, donate, or destroy their work, then it accumulates, and since space is money, the artist soon discovers the relative comfort of a stretched canvas for a bed. Thus the artist must promote the merit and commercial value of what is to them, a partition, a realized piece of their soul. Some artists resort to a conventional rationalization, allaying the unease of self-promotion and the guilt of separation by insisting that others serve as agents and salespeople of their work. Others become convinced that an artist can and must succeed commercially, for commercial viability is proof of merit, and sales are proof of value. For some commercial success is more than a validation of the art, it is a validation of the artist.
For poor schmucks like me there is only the art. My mind refuses to engage with matters of promotion and commerce. I can do it to a limited extent but not without incurring expense to my art. For me it is one or the other, but not both. I have been in a hyper-creative stage for over 15 years now, and when this bout of creativity began, I “fell to” my work feeling as if I had to create and work through a large backlog of pieces. That sentiment in turn encouraged an idea that it would be wise to wait until I had accumulated a significant body of work before attempting to sell it. By the time I had accumulated lots of completed pieces, it seemed as though the work itself was pushing me forward, and that any attempt to stop, sort, and sell the stuff would be counter-productive.
Furthermore, when I was recently compelled to slow my pace due to various physical and neurological ailments, I finally had an opportunity to hear the work apart from the score-sheets and the practice sessions, and another round of detailed editing and refinement ensued. Indeed I started to feel as though between the new music and the old, I will forever be employed, playing and writing, arranging and recording.
Is it possible for such folk to actually exist and survive in contemporary society? How does one justify a life of art and sheer creativity? If the artist refuses to participate in a culture of self-exposure, self-indulgence, and self-promotion, then how does society assess merit and/or value? Is that painter, living as hermit in the woods, a genius or a crank? Even one so ill-disposed to put aside art for commerce as myself must answer, for I acknowledge that I am that artist.
(As an aside, here I must note the challenge that faces anyone who would dare call themselves an “artist” in society. A typical interaction goes like this: “What do you do?” “I’m an artist.” Here, an eyebrow goes up, and an odd grin appears. “Oh, yeah? Make any money?” My reply to this question is rather indirect: “What artist was ever paid for their work?”)
So there must be some value, some merit, some ineffable contribution that art makes to the evolution of humanity. But aside from commerce there is no board of merit, no jury of one’s peers. If artists of great genius were to create works and then hand them out to passersby on the street, how would that change art or commerce? If a day-laborer were to receive a Braque, or a Picasso, or an O’Keefe or a Banksy, and hang it upon their apartment wall, then how does that affect the artist or the art?
Humanity needs the reflection, criticism, and come-uppance that art provides. So museums and public galleries, libraries and concert halls serve best as repositories of art. There the work is curated and it’s longevity is at least partially assured.
But I recall a conversation I had with Robert Guillemin, (Aka Sidewalk Sam) one day on a sidewalk along Huntington Ave in Boston back in 1977. I asked him how he could bear to create such glorious works of art in chalk upon the sidewalk, knowing that foot-traffic or rain could destroy it all in minutes. His reply was that the essential nature of art is that it is ephemeral. I asked, did he not want people to see what he had created? He answered that his work was for the people, but also for the wind and the sky and the trees and the dogs and squirrels, and that the rain would only change his creation; that it would soften, then melt and run down to color the gutter.