I recently related to an artist friend that I was considering signing
with an agent for some commissioned work. The friend grilled me for about
twenty minutes with a line of questioning which implied that I was about
to offer my artistic soul on the altar of Mammon. Then she asked me for
the agent's name and phone number.
One of the tricky things about doing business as an artist is having that
voice constantly whispering in your ear: "ART is GOOD; BUSINESS is
BAD". Any independent artist seeking remuneration for her work is running
a small business at some level. Circumstances of economy, tax structures,
and the demands of life in general make it hard enough to run a small business,
without a sense of nagging guilt about being in business at all. There is
a tendency for artists to publicly treat "business" as a dirty
word, while secretly lusting after the rewards of a financially successful
art career. It is an old story. Make money by your work, and be suspected
of pandering; don't sell, and be regarded as a kind of artistic child, pure,
but not to be taken seriously.
Curiously, this tension in matters of art and commerce seems to fade as
one takes a closer look into the great gilded past of art history. I haven't
noticed that many of those who are acknowledged as "The Masters"
have been kicked off their pedestals for being artistic trollops. Most of
them were on someone's payroll or else pursued their art as a way to make
a living for their families. Vermeer, for instance, had eleven children
to support and plied his trade much as any other Dutch merchant of his time.
Precious few pursued their work purely to express themselves or to advance
artistic theories. It is some art historians (and in more recent years,
critics) who, aided by the romantic soft-focus of historical distance, have
transformed the Masters into a company of artistic saints whose hands are
unsullied by commerce. There is a case to be made, however, that instead
of being tarnished, the expressive power of their art was in many cases
heightened and disciplined through the human contact and restraint imposed
upon them by their markets or patrons.
As anyone breathing in the late twentieth century is aware, business is
utterly dependent on communication between human beings. For most people,
earning the daily bread depends on dealing with all kinds of people (some
of whom you might not necessarily invite to dinner) and on being aware of
the needs and aspirations of others. If art is a form of communication,
then the contact with daily life demanded by commercial concerns can actually
enhance the immediacy and communicative force of the artist's work. [This
is not the same thing as cynically cranking out work for the market.
There will always be someone doing that.] At the very least, the discipline
of business can be a pretty good way to avoid self-absorption. At best,
it can nurture work that makes a connection with the viewer and leaves the
artist a little better able to continue to make art.