I’ve excerpted this section from Chapter 6 of Living the Artist’s Life, because many artists tell me this chapter helped them understand the realities of running a gallery, and the slim profits most galleries make–assuming they make a profit (the majority don’t). So read on. If you don’t find it enlightening, it might at least prove amusing at my expense.
Chapter 6:
Before I discuss the placing of your work in the galleries, it would be useful for you to know a little about what it takes to run one. Why? Because the more you know about the realities of the art world, the better you’ll understand how you might fit in. The story I’m about to tell you is, like most of what I’ve written, quite candid. But I often find that the deeper sorts of understanding spring from candor, and, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, this book is as much about understanding as it is about art.
One Gallery’s Story
At the time I decided to open a gallery, in 1993, I was living in Lawrence, Kansas: home to the University of Kansas, to William Burroughs (when he was still alive), to Jayhawk basketball, and thousands of college students. In Lawrence—a town that is very much alive—there is a band in nearly every bar, and an artist on nearly every corner. In other words, it’s like most college towns.
After two years of running an art business out of my home, I realized I’d have to open a proper gallery in order to succeed. The problem was, I knew nothing about running a gallery. Neither did my artists, but they were very excited about the prospect, and most were certain that we’d make buckets of money.
My decision had been brought on by the fact that, the year before, I’d landed a major commission from G.E. Aircraft Engines, who had ordered twenty bronzes by Jim Brothers, my lead bronze sculptor. Achieving this, between my obligations as novelist, father, and owner of a small tree service, had been very demanding, but the benefits were profound. After casting expenses, which naturally we’d underestimated, Jim and I realized a reasonable but hardly earth-shaking profit.
My share was quickly eroded by debt, taxes, the cost of raising children, and marketing expenses. Also a week in Colorado with my family. Afterward I had $10,000 left—enough, I convinced myself, to open a gallery and begin my climb toward prosperity.
Jim Brothers, who had been sculpting and starving for thirty years by then, advised me against it. He’d seen countless galleries go down in flames, and although he was enjoying our initial success, his pleasure didn’t override his skepticism. He warned me that while people do need clothes, food and shelter, nobody needs art. He knew the odds I’d be up against, especially opening in the Midwest, and didn’t want to see me go broke. His advice was to keep cutting trees, and keep selling art out of my house.
I thanked him for the advice, but all my instincts told me I had to move on. They also told me that somehow things would work out, and that I would be guided through all of it, if I could just stay in tune with my intuition. I trusted that I would.
My wife trusted the same when I told her my plan. She wasn’t sure if a mere $10,000 would be enough to open a gallery (it wasn’t), but she believed that somehow we’d make things work. Even so, there was no way I was going to open a gallery in a town of only 90,000 people. We knew we’d have to move to Kansas City, a town of over a million, if we were to stand even the remotest chance of succeeding.
So in short order I found a space, we sold the house in Lawrence, bought the one in Kansas City, and the entire adventure—although some might call it a nightmare—began. If I’d known what lay in wait for me, I’m sure I would have stayed in the tree business, trusting that eventually my novels would find their way into print, and we’d all move to Tuscany. Looking back, I guess it’s a good thing it didn’t work out that way. My job was here–at least for now…