Clear Seeing Place

by Brian Rutenberg

  “No, we pay you $5,000.”

  There is nothing wrong with a painter making a lot of money from their work. People who love the romantic notion of the starving artist probably never had to live on Cap’n Crunch or wash their hair in gas station sinks. I always defend painters like LeRoy Neiman and Thomas Kinkade because, regardless of whether or not you like what they do, they are pros who branded themselves and created demand for their works. That’s hard to do. Their paintings aren’t game changers and won’t appear in Art Basel, but who cares? They make charming pictures devoid of discord, but they do it adequately and have a loyal audience. Just because you dislike something doesn’t mean you’re right. The best way to learn about stuff is by talking to people who love it, because they will automatically know more. When I see a Thomas Kinkade gallery in a mall, I always go in and ask people why they like his work. I hope to learn something. Bottom line, the world is big enough for all of us. The cure for bad painting is more painting.

  Working in show business requires an extraordinarily thick skin. People screw up all the time, but you learn to roll with it. Correct spelling is important in a business where image is everything. I have seen my name misspelled in ads, on television, and on museum walls. My paintings have appeared in national magazines upside down and with such horrible color separations that they were unrecognizable. Unless there is time to correct the mistake, I go with it.

  Working in galleries in the 1980s showed me the unglamorous underbelly of the art world, and I learned from observation what not to do. I never call or visit a gallery while my show is up. If they need me, they know how to find me. Dealers get annoyed when artists regularly call to ask about sales or to see if any critics stepped through the door. Some artists hang around the gallery and even walk several paces behind visitors as they view the works. Such behavior not only disturbs people but also implies that the dealers don’t know their business. Painters should stick to what they know best. Let dealers deal.

  Artists have also been known to speak with an air of entitlement. We are entitled to nothing. The arts are a tough, tough business. There are millions of painters out there who would give their bladders to exhibit and possibly sell their work. Any exhibition anywhere is an honor, not a right. Entitlement brings out the worst in people. A man once pulled me aside to ask if I could get his son a New York dealer—at my father’s memorial. He’d even brought some of his son’s shitty paintings in the trunk of his car. Claude Monet said a painter needs the following things: the ability to work like a locomotive, indifference to everything but the canvas, an iron will, and to not be a cock. OK, I added the last one.

  Like most New York artists, I had a bevy of day jobs to support myself while I painted at night. I played in bands and worked in restaurants and hotels and in the storeroom of a posh Italian boutique directly across the street from Forum Gallery. The bloated Roman manager, Gianfranco, would sit at his desk in a $2,000 silk suit and flick ashes from his Gitanes onto the white carpet just to watch me bend over and clean it up. It was humiliating. Other jobs included freelance illustration, art handling, studio assistant gigs for painters like Gregory Amenoff and Joseph Santore, and part-time gallery work. One of the gallery owners, Spencer Throckmorton, gave me full health insurance for working two days a week and allowed me to create my schedule. It made all the difference.

  If possible, every painter should do gallery work to better understand the business side of the arts. The standard artist/gallery split is fifty-fifty. Photography and framing are generally the artist’s responsibility, while the gallery covers transportation, promotion, archiving, correspondence, and exhibitions. Dealers receive bundles of solicitations from artists every day, which rarely lead to anything. However, there are exceptions. Most connections come through a combination of word of mouth, a collector’s or critic’s recommendation, and sheer persistence. If you feel a gallery shares your aesthetic, then go to their openings and introduce yourself. If you live in another city, then a short letter and a high-quality color postcard are attractive and professional ways to make an impression. The key word is professionalism. Use fine paper stock, spell-check, and splurge for good photography; a grainy shot of a painting leaning against your closet door won’t impress a New York dealer.

  Art in America magazine’s Annual Guide to Museums, Galleries, and Artists is published every August and is a great place to start compiling a mailing list. Websites have become essential, and you can create one for relatively little money. Social media platforms such as YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram are the future because they’ve leveled the playing field. I used to write fan letters to my heroes via agents and publicists; now I can tweet them. Facebook is especially useful: about 30 percent of the people who attend my openings know me exclusively through Facebook, and that percentage is growing.

  A real artist/gallery partnership is about loyalty. A dealer sees the big picture and handles business affairs so that the artist can focus on work. They don’t make promises but instead say, “Let’s start slow and build something.” Most of all, good dealers stick with you like family and protect you from outside intrusion so that you can be the most like yourself. I have such dealers.

  Every six months, my New York dealers and I meet to go over my exhibition schedule, which is booked four or five years in advance and typically consists of two solo shows with about ten paintings each and a few group shows, commissions, and art fairs. I am represented by seven galleries in different cities, so each one gets a new show every two or three years. Unsold works remain in inventory as many sales happen long after an exhibition. It takes about six months to make a show because I want the paintings to feel as if they were started in one season and finished in another.

  Museum exhibitions require a lot more lead time because they consist primarily of borrowed works. They can take up to five years to plan. It is important to keep records of who owns your paintings in case you need to borrow them back. Splurge on professional photography, sign every canvas, and always note the page, year, and issue of every article or review written about you; I had to hire someone to go back through hundreds of articles when my monograph was being produced to get that information.

  Most solo shows run for four weeks. Artists claim that certain months are better than others, but I disagree; people will see a strong show no matter what the month, unless it is summer, when most of the New York art world goes to the Hamptons or Hudson, NY. Opening receptions are generally held on the first Thursday of the month. I’ve had over two hundred of them and still get nervous before each one; it’s not how the work will be received that worries me but the thought that people are going out of their way and getting dressed up to come to my show. I worry they won’t have a good time.

  To get over that, I have rituals. For instance, on the day of a New York opening, I watch cooking shows in bed with hot water bottles under my feet and go out to breakfast with my wife or close friends. Then I eat fried pork dumplings in Chinatown or sit alone in the penguin house at the Central Park Zoo. Most important, I keep a laminated photograph of Neptune, my favorite planet, in my wallet as a reminder of how transient it all is.

  My standard opening-night uniform (navy-blue suit and black shirt) is laid out on the bed with five Altoids in the right pants pocket and five Tylenol in the left. Prior to an opening in Boston, I made the mistake of putting Tylenol PM in my pocket and fell asleep midsentence at the after-party. Most receptions run from six to eight p.m., but I always arrive fifteen minutes early to personally thank everyone, from the gallery staff to the people serving wine. I slung ice at openings for years, and only one artist (Tony Fitzpatrick) bothered to say thank you.

  It’s impossible to predict the response to an exhibition or anticipate the turnout for a reception; I’ve had them jam-packed with a line waiting to get in and others where the entire crowd could fit at a four-top—and did. Three people came to my opening on a frigid night in Detroit in the early 1990s, and I bought them all
dinner afterward. Finally, the most important thing to remember is that you can’t spend someone else’s money. If a piece doesn’t sell, it hasn’t found the right buyer yet.

  To be understood is to prostitute oneself.

  —Fernando Pessoa

  Meetings

  Meetings drive show business. Although they require skills that we all learned in kindergarten, such as sitting up straight, making eye contact, and always flushing, you’d be surprised how many people forget the simple stuff. While working in galleries, I witnessed egregious behavior by artists who showed up twenty minutes late dressed like Count Chocula and sat hunched over staring at the ceiling. They shot themselves in the foot because they didn’t know how to conduct a conference. Here are some suggestions:

  The most important thing is punctuality. Being late doesn’t only show a lack of respect for your time but also for the dealer’s. Act like the professional they want to do business with, one who will still be working in thirty years.

  Be easy to work with. A dealer has dozens of careers to manage; you have only one.

  Speak in clear language and without pretense. Avoid artsy-fartsy gobbledygook like, “As momentary replicas become clarified through boundaried and personal praxis, the viewer is left with a clue to the possibilities of our condition.” WTF?

  Don’t complain. Artists are notorious whiners. If you’re having a bad day, then act like it’s a good day.

  Dress impeccably. Many young artists try to stand out with radical behavior and appearance, but that takes effort that should go into the work. I discovered long ago that if I projected the appearance of a golf pro, people would leave me alone. Sure, I could dress like Dracula, but being a clean-cut family guy who paints landscapes for a living seems far more radical than wearing a cape. Be your easiest self. My work isn’t angry or shocking because I’m not. There are two kinds of angry painters: the mentally ill and those who think that displaying their suffering makes them real. Everyone suffers. We all experience misery, joy, ecstasy, and loss. Put it where it counts: in the work. If you aren’t empty when you leave the studio, then something’s wrong.

  Smile. You’re not selling totes umbrellas.

  Totes

  Before I had a family, I’d paint for sixteen hours a day and then get dressed up to go out with my dirtball friends; my energy was boundless. These days I don’t even put on pants unless it’s absolutely necessary. I paint for a few hours, grunt as I sit down, and suddenly wake up with a rope of saliva dangling from my chin. I grunt when I stand up too. Painting is a physical activity. My ankles look like ham hocks at the end of the day and my muscles get sore from lugging heavy canvases around the studio. For relief, regular back and scalp massages are part of my routine. I’ve been going to the same guy on Hester Street in Chinatown for decades, where I can get an hour-long deep-tissue massage for forty dollars. It’s nothing glamorous; I strip down to my boxer briefs, lie on butcher paper, and sleep like a fence post. No talking. I loathe chitchat during a massage.

  Years ago, at an expensive resort in Hawaii, a masseur told me that I had a body like a wild boar. I thanked him in hopes of preventing any further ungulate talk, but had to lie there naked for an hour wondering what he meant. My ancestors spawned in the Mediterranean, so I am a hairy guy, but why a wild boar? Ripped muscles? Coarse fur? Poor eyesight? Wet nose? I once made the mistake of telling a masseur that I was an artist, and he pulled out his slides. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I looked through his entire portfolio on the table and said, “I didn’t realize that painting like this was possible.” Now I say that I’m a totes salesman.

  Weirdo

  Painters are creeps, and we’ve codified a series of cordial questions designed to gauge how well the competition is doing. Here are some examples translated into English. I’ve heard them all:

  “Where do you store your paintings?”

  Are you selling?

  “Do you build your stretchers?”

  Can you afford to have them custom built?

  “How do you ship your paintings?”

  Do you have a dealer?

  “I didn’t realize that painting like this was possible.”

  Kinko’s is hiring.

  “Do you have any drawings?”

  I didn’t realize that painting like this was possible.

  “I went to your opening last night. You’ve done it again.”

  I didn’t realize that painting like this was possible.

  “I love your work, but I’m not very sophisticated.”

  I can’t control my verbal diarrhea.

  “I’ve never heard of you.”

  Not only have I heard of you, but I’m so jealous that I could cut myself.

  “Let’s have coffee.”

  Fuck you in the neck.

  Making It

  Young and inexperienced painters talk about “making it,” getting their big break. I did too. Here’s what I’ve learned. There are no big breaks, only the gradual accumulation of experiences that nudge a career forward. There is no such thing as making it; there is only the painting you are making right now. I’ve had hundreds of exhibitions, have stacks of awards, reviews, books, and catalogs, and earn a great living. By every definition of success, I’ve “made it,” but it’s never enough, disgusting as that sounds. The secret to longevity as a painter isn’t glamorous: Work hard and don’t ask for help. Help hurts. When asked how to make it as a writer, Charles Bukowski replied, “Quit now, you suck.” If that simple, declarative statement is enough to discourage an artist, he or she should do something else. Waiting for a break is a waste of precious time. Nothing happens unless you do it yourself.

  A friend of mine had three paintings in the Whitney Biennial in the late 1980s. He informed me that his life was about to change forever because he’d finally made it. He rode the subway from his apartment in Queens to the black-tie reception on Madison Avenue and took the same subway home. Nothing happened. He sells real estate now.

  Love every show no matter where it is, because what goes up always comes down. Careers aren’t made in your tux but in your Crocs. If your day job doesn’t leave enough time for painting, wake up earlier. If you don’t have a big studio, do small work. Seek out experiences. If someone offers you tickets to the opera, take them. If they ask you to help their douche bag friend move boxes in a garage, do it. If there’s a lecture on beavers at the museum, go there. See what life looks like. It’s takes effort to become expansive.

  People often ask me what happens when I feel uninspired. The answer is nothing, because I don’t get inspired. Inspiration is unreliable. The only thing I can rely on is a work schedule. When I feel blocked, I keep painting because that’s my job. Day after day, I show up and hack away at the gigantic, slow-moving iceberg in my studio. When a piece breaks off, I get a painting. That isn’t luck, but stubborn persistence. Working every day puts you in the position for good and bad things to happen. Deciding to leave in a mistake isn’t luck, it’s practice. When tired, I put my head in my hands and sleep. Then I wake up, eat a peanut butter cup, and get back to work. It has taken me forty years and much more than ten thousand hours to develop the chops necessary to create the illusion that painting is effortless and spontaneous. It is neither.

  So little of what could happen does happen.

  —Salvador Dalí

  Rejection

  Pain is a great teacher. I mentioned earlier that I keep a pillowcase full of rejection letters in my studio as a reminder of the role that failure played in galvanizing me. If you’re afraid of looking like a fool, then please quit now. Society doesn’t look to artists for sound, responsible decision making; our job is to strip naked and stand in traffic. Early in my career, I sent out hundreds of envelopes full of slides to galleries, and all of them were returned, some without as much as a form letter. It was depressing, but I kept going; all it takes is one nibble.

  A prominent New York dealer left a message on my answering machine in the early 1990s r
equesting that I come to the gallery in person. Could this be a meeting to talk about representation? I got a haircut, showered, put on a luxurious black turtleneck, and took the R train to Prince Street in the heart of SoHo. I bounded up to the front desk with a toothy grin and introduced myself to the receptionist, a dour little man wearing an even more luxurious black turtleneck. Without making eye contact, he held out my sheet of slides as if it were a used condom. Wait, it gets worse. Affixed to them was a yellow Post-it note that read, “Don’t let this guy come near me,” signed by the gallery owner. He didn’t even have the decency to remove the note. I was humiliated. Ten years later, that same dealer expressed interest in my work, so I did what any self-respecting artist would do: I wrote “Go Fuck Yourself” on a Post-it and sent it to him.

  Sometimes humiliation is paired with physical pain. At a meeting with a prestigious midtown dealer, I pulverized a 1929 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chair when I sat down. At 245 pounds, I’m what people refer to as a “chair-breaker” and have crushed many of them at dinner parties, restaurants, and on the beach. There is simply no way to look sexy while fumbling to stand up like a newborn foal, dropping papers all over the floor, and putting a chair back together in stunned silence.

  I’ve made a fool of myself in front of even larger crowds too. My first public slide lecture was a disaster because I planned to “speak from the heart” and instead blanked in front of two hundred people. Each click of the projector was like an ice pick to the scalp. Now I never take the stage without notes. Here are the lessons I learned the hard way: When speaking in public, always have a bottle of water, do a sound check an hour before to familiarize yourself with the equipment, and appoint someone to sit nearby in case of a technical issue. As you speak, skim the foreheads of the audience, but avoid eye contact, because you’ll only see the guy getting REM sleep.