- Joined
- Nov 3, 2005
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I am a painter. I have a number of canvas' ready to show to galleries all of which I consider to be my finest work. I have slides taken of them and want to send these to the relevant exhibition spaces. Obviously I can't just send the images to galleries as no gallery will look at paintings that do not come from a paintings agent. As painting agents will not look at work from a painter that does not have a gallery this poses a dilemma. I decide to purchase the invaluable services of a pre-painter, a professional that knows what the galleries like. She takes my paintings and paints out offending portions, recolours others and informs me that the public taste is decidedly against violet or indeed any mixing of red and blue, she then suggesting complete removal of this offensive spectra. I dutifully obey upon which as if by magic my paintings become magically attractive to agents and thereafter, galleries. She reccomends that the paintings be marketed towards the 'young adult collector', a class of art lover recently much swollen in numbers. This entails the removal of any overly long brush strokes, a mark against which the young adult collectors are much opposed. They are dutifully expunged.
Within the gallery the owner introduces me to the repainters, a team of pros kept by them to correct the dreadful omissions of the artists whose inability to practise their own craft is legendary. These persons apply further revisions and corrections to the canvases to ready them for the gaze of the public whom they must protect from any works that might place undue strain upon them. It is decided that the paintings do not 'grab' the veiwer with sufficient violence upon first glance and so brighter more explosive hues are added to lure in the eye of the 'art collectors' (These are described to me as bovine creatures who wish all paintings to more or less resemble each other and who start at anything that remotely differs from expectation.)
To my surprise the gallery expect me to whitewash their walls for them, print and send out fliers advertising the show and drive the collectors to the gallery in a bus but, earnestly willing to join the pros I concede to these demands.
I eventually tire of this circus and decide to hang my paintings before the public upon the metal railings that surround the park. When ensconced here I am continually surrounded by other painters who castigate me as an onanist and egomaniac, insisting that I once more don the gallery owners yoke as a sign of sweet humility. They even mock me and strut around before my railings thrusting out their chests and crying up the manly virtues of 'the marketplace' the gladatorial arena in which they battle. They shout that none that be not as hardy, thick skinned, career minded and masochistic as they be allowed to show in galleries at all!
Crazy?
No gallery owners or artists would ever act in such a draconian or subservient manner?
It happens every day, only you have to be a writer.
Within the gallery the owner introduces me to the repainters, a team of pros kept by them to correct the dreadful omissions of the artists whose inability to practise their own craft is legendary. These persons apply further revisions and corrections to the canvases to ready them for the gaze of the public whom they must protect from any works that might place undue strain upon them. It is decided that the paintings do not 'grab' the veiwer with sufficient violence upon first glance and so brighter more explosive hues are added to lure in the eye of the 'art collectors' (These are described to me as bovine creatures who wish all paintings to more or less resemble each other and who start at anything that remotely differs from expectation.)
To my surprise the gallery expect me to whitewash their walls for them, print and send out fliers advertising the show and drive the collectors to the gallery in a bus but, earnestly willing to join the pros I concede to these demands.
I eventually tire of this circus and decide to hang my paintings before the public upon the metal railings that surround the park. When ensconced here I am continually surrounded by other painters who castigate me as an onanist and egomaniac, insisting that I once more don the gallery owners yoke as a sign of sweet humility. They even mock me and strut around before my railings thrusting out their chests and crying up the manly virtues of 'the marketplace' the gladatorial arena in which they battle. They shout that none that be not as hardy, thick skinned, career minded and masochistic as they be allowed to show in galleries at all!
Crazy?
No gallery owners or artists would ever act in such a draconian or subservient manner?
It happens every day, only you have to be a writer.
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