Once upon a time a very dusty female in bib-overalls made a wish. She wanted to become a professional artist - not just make art (she already did that), but make it professionally. So one night she went to bed, and sometime during her sleep, she was visited by the Fairy Godmother of Visual Art, Jane Brown (James covers music only). Jane sprinkled her with some basalt dust (the stone of champions), and gave her a shove into professionalism.
Upon awakening, she ran to the mirror and 10 and behold there she was, looking just the same, but much more "professional". What to do now that her whole world had changed? She thought about all of the other "pros" she knew and admired and decided to follow in their chip trail. The very first thing she had to do was run to the nearest Kinko's and get business cards. Not just a few, but at least 500. The fact that, at the rate the public shows interest in buying art, her first run of cards would last approximately 17.2 years didn't phase her. She wasn't worried; she knew of other ways of getting rid of them. She could unload some on the last day at any symposium. After a big hug, who's going to say "No, thanks" to an extended card? And rumor had it one could quietly place stacks of them on any table at the Home Show. People pick up any paper product they come into contact with there.
Cards - now what? Numbers. She needed lots and lots of tax numbers. Hey it was great. She never had to make a dime, but could fill out state revenue, federal and city tax forms at any given moment. She now had a reason to keep every receipt, mark down every mile and amortize her rasps. The really terrific part was once she applied for one number, more came looking for her. Strange, it didn't necessarily work that way with her art, but hey, this proved that government takes a professional seriously.
Next she needed papers. Papers to prove she was qualified After referring to my brilliant essay in a previous issue on how to create the Artist's Resume, she sprinted to her word processor and began putting her life in print, remembering as she typed that art resumes don't work for getting real jobs, so she had to have at least two sets of papers with one looking "deeper" and more artistic than the other.
What good is a resume without a portfolio she thought? What fun, she could now purchase leather. Portfolios, however, require photos, unless of course you are talking about your slide portfolio, or your digital portfolio. So before she could decide which size, color, texture and fastening device her visual diary was going to have, she had to photograph her work.
Easy she thought, just break out the old instamatic and fire away. Silly girl; she was forgetting ever present "reality". Our gal needed a minimum of six cameras with tripods, forty lights, and twelve thousand background choices. She needed to plan on spending three days to take shots of just one piece. Galleries generally want color slides with seamless black backgrounds. The public wants color prints against whatever color "makes the sculpture sing". Publications require black and whites, except some newsletters which don't like it black or too busy behind the sculpture. Each piece - potentially three different films, several different back drops, five different angles. Move 'em, move 'em, move 'em.
Even with the equipment, she wasn't out of the old stone pile yet. There still was the dilemma for smaller indoor sculptors like herself as to whether or not to fall to the ground when taking a shot. This was not out of reverence, but to make the art work look really huge so people would take her work more seriously, or should she leave it in scale for actual sale's purposes?
Deciding what effects to use when taking her photos became a very serious and anxiety- provoking business. Was it really a good idea to have her pieces look much better in the photo than in person? But, she thought, people want drama with their art. If it wasn't huge how could she accomplish this? Then she remembered that's what those lights were for. Those lights were not just lights, they were PHOTO LIGHTS. They were so big and hot that your life expectancy drops just by owning them. You cannot look into them, touch them, or swivel them the wrong way, and if any body oil gets near the bulb, they will explode. But hell, they create great effects. Great until you have to sell the sculpture from a photograph you've taken where the work appears to glow as if by magic. She worried about the possible consequences when she had to tell a prospective buyer that, to have the piece actually look like the photo, they would also need to have a special niche or pedestal made, a black wall and/or room and they must buy PHOTO LIGHTS and tripods to place in front of, to one side, and for sure, in back of their purchase. But what the hell, it was worth the risk, they weren't dealing with any amateur here.
Once her photos were taken, she now got to buy the imported leather case for the prints which had to be blown up to at least 5"x7". She followed the advice that a minimum of 10 copies of each slide should be made so she could mail them all over the universe to contests and galleries. She got to rent that safety deposit box she'd always wanted but had had nothing of value to put in before. Now she had slides. Lots and lots of slides that needed protection so when she became famous she would have the original slide of each work of art in a safe place for the world to remember her by. If that never happened, well at least there'd be something in there for her heirs to divide. At this rate she certainTy wasn't going to have any money left.
The longer she worked at it, the more professional she got. She was ready for marketing now. Oh the possibilities. Brochures, videos, her 01"1 Web site, an agent perhaps. There was onTy one problem. Since her wish came true she never had any time left to make art anymore.
