Peggy Guggenheim Gallery, New York, 1942

When I opened my gallery, in 1991, I was naive about the art business, three inches above broke, with little capital and no experience. What little capital I did have, I’d saved from running a tree service for eight years. Why a tree service? Because I had to remain free to write my novels, which I never could have done if I’d been scribbling promotional copy for corporations�though the money would have been better.

So I opened the business, my capital was gone in three months, and my spiral into debt and near-bankruptcy began. I’d always worked long hours in the tree business; now 70-hour weeks became the standard. It was either that or file, and I wasn’t going to file. Not until seven years later did we start to turn a reasonable profit.

But the one thing that allowed me to stay open in this fickle market was the consigning of artwork. I didn’t invent the system, I was just told that that’s how it was done. So on a 50% split with painters, 40% with ceramists and steel sculptors, and 33% with bronze sculptors, I began to take on work. Why the different percentages? Because these artists have different levels of expense, and broke though I was, it would have been unethical to take the same from a bronze sculptor that I did from a painter. This is still my policy, though few other galleries agree with it. It is also my policy to increase each artist’s prices to the highest level that the market will bear, so that they profit.

What did these artists get in return? Sales, my growing skills as a dealer, insured works, annual shows that I paid for, marketing, advertising, articles in papers and magazines, a nice space in which to show, and contact with my expanding circle of clients. They also got my counsel. Had they not consigned their work, and insisted on selling it to me, I would have gone bust, and none of their careers would have advanced. It was a joint effort; it still is.

In the Western World, only about 7% of the buying public collect original art, regardless of the price level. Selling art isn’t like selling clothes in a department store, where you buy the items wholesale, then count on the vast demands of the public to buy your inventory. Everybody buys clothes; very few people buy art. Hence the majority of inventory in any gallery never sells. Dealers must also constantly experiment with the market in determining what they can and can’t sell. As they do this, they deal with annual overheads that vary from $120,000 to $100,000,000, depending on the gallery.

Ideally, all artists should be paid a wholesale price for their work, with the galleries turning it over at a retail profit. Unfortunately the very slender level of demand would force most galleries out of business were this a standard practice.

If I were a visual artist, I would like to see the consignment policy banned; I just don’t think it’s realistic in view of the limited market. Besides, I am an artist�a novelist. I wrote for 25 years, endured 177 rejections, and went through two agents before getting published. I’ve written ten books, or three million words. Believe me, I know how it feels to be saddled with an impecunious calling that you have no choice over, and for which you sacrifice so much. I would love it if agents would buy my books, then sell them to publishers in turn. Unfortunately, that isn’t realistic for their market either.

The consignment system is flawed, to be sure. I didn’t invent it, but since it’s in place, it’s my job to utilize it ethically. When an artist signs with me, they’re not just consigning works that we hope we can maybe sell; they’re entrusting us with a career to help advance, the same way an agent does for a writer. If my gallery fails in this�since you can’t succeed at it every time�we discuss what to do about it, and try to act.

There are plenty of dealers who take advantage of the system, never pay their artists, leave town with the art, don’t pay for the shows or marketing, charge criminal percentages, and should be locked up like any other crook. They’ve always been around, they always will be. I can’t change that. But I can try to educate artists on the differences between ethical and unethical dealers, which is why I write for a variety of magazines, and I why I wrote Living the Artist’s Life.

The truth is, the market realities place stresses on both artists and dealers, which explains why 80% of all galleries go broke. Until there’s a larger market for art in a world that places greater value on new cars and sofas than art and education, we will continue to deal with this issue. But at least we get to live this life on some level; for 90% of the world’s populace, that isn’t even an option. I always try to remember that; it helps keep things in perspective, and the gratitude in place.

I consider most art fairs a waste of time for the serious artist. Even so, if you intend to sell, you will in all likelihood still have to do them. I’ve done them. Most of my artists have done them. Most artists I know have done them. They provide you with those necessary lines
for your resume, and you’re going to need plenty of those lines before any of the better galleries will consider your work. For those of you who only execute installation-based work, or work that is strictly avant garde, art fairs are of little relevance. But for the purpose of general knowledge, you should read this section anyway.

Just what is an art fair? Usually an outdoor event arranged by well intentioned dilettantes for a largely indifferent public. Are they all this bad? No. Certain of them are excellent, and couldn’t be better venues for your work, or for meeting potential collectors. The trick is learning to choose between the ones that are worthwhile, and the ones that aren’t.

The best story I ever heard about an art fair came from Vernon Brejcha, a glass artist whose works have been placed with museums worldwide, but who in the beginning was as unknown as any emerging artist. He told me how once, in the early ’70s, he was sitting a booth at a show in Dallas when a man, a woman, and their daughter walked up. The trio stared at his glass, stared at him, then the father said to the girl: “See now, Charlene. This is how you’ll end up if you don’t start getting better grades.” They turned and walked off.

Vernon was rather more selective in choosing his fairs after that.

Regardless of whether the show is an outdoor fair or an indoor exhibit, it must be juried. It means nothing for you to be accepted in a non-juried exhibit. What’s more, in non-juried shows you don’t know what other kinds of work will be exhibited, or whether you’ll be stuck next to some guy who does paint-by-number landscapes on saw blades.

Amusingly, the jury members in juried shows are sometimes no more qualified to serve on these panels than the average car salesman. In fact they may have almost no background in art, but are simply chosen because their niece is chairwoman, or they think it would be a “creative” thing to do, or, better yet, they’re trying to expand their horizons. It
could be worse. The panel could choose to not have a show at all. In certain cases this would be a blessing, but often it would not, since the more sophisticated of the juried shows do help advance the awareness of art. Besides, if you win a prize they usually give you a little dough.

I therefore repeat, ANY SHOW OR FAIR YOU ENTER MUST BE JURIED. So much the better if it’s a well established venue with a jurying process that is respected, like the Navy Pier Shows in Chicago (if you can afford the booth fees), or, in the more typical realm, the Plaza Art Fair in Kansas City. But even if it’s a newer show that doesn’t yet have a reputation, as long as it’s well run, well attended and in a proper setting, this is better than letting your work sit in the studio and collect dust. You’re in the process of building up your resume. It’s a gradual process, and you’ll have to be patient in carrying it out.