WHAT NOT TO DO
Nicholas Harper • February 2, 2021
Generally speaking, a cardinal rule for artists to follow when desiring an exhibit, is to not approach the gallery director during an opening and ask about how one should get said exhibit. An especially bad no no is to pull out your cell phone and ask to have the director look at your images on your phone or to peruse your Instagram feed.
While it's entirely appropriate, even encouraged, to introduce yourself and make yourself know to the director, even going so far as to say you're an artist yourself, leave the self promotion to a bare minimum. Perhaps instead of talking about yourself, make a substantive comment on the current exhibit or the curatorial programming of the gallery in general. Then, be off with yourself. That is unless you're going to buy some art.
While it's also OK to give your card or to ask if it's alright that you follow up with the director down the line as to how to submit for an exhibit, during an opening simply isn't the right time for this. The director needs this time to do everything in their power to work for the benefit of the exhibiting artist. Of course they should make time to speak with as many people as possible regardless of buying intentions, but the goal that evening is to sell art. This is true, even if the art being sold is that of the director himself...
All of that said, and as is the case with every cardinal rule, sometimes they're meant to be broken, as was the case with Eli Libson. Eli approached me during an opening to talk about an exhibit idea that he had in mind. The exhibit was for myself, not at my gallery, but at Gallery 360 in South Minneapolis. It was opening night and, if I do say so myself, it was a rather well attended opening and work was starting to flow off the wall sales wise.
It was at about the very peak of the opening that Eli approached and introduced himself. Being a tall person himself, it was actually a bit of a relief to talk to someone similar in stature as bending down to hear and converse throughout an evening can play it's tole on a persons lower back region. Perhaps that helped his cause. It also didn't hurt that he had a great personality and so his approach didn't come off anything like an intrusion or rude in any way. But whatever the circumstances, I found myself in the mood to hear what he had to pitch, even if it was for other artists and for my gallery and had nothing to do with the evening in question.
Eli's idea was right up my alley, a group exhibit of four like minded artists with a bent towards the fantastical and wondrous. Two of the artists he named I knew well and instantly knew would be a great fit for the gallery. Eli's work I wasn't familiar with, and so out came his phone with images at the ready... A year later, The Unloved Creatures exhibit opened at the Rogue Buddha Gallery, spearheaded by Eli.
If there's any moral to this story, it's that sometimes the rules are to be broken and chances taken. That said, if you try such a tactic on your own, just be cool if it doesn't work out the way you hoped and don't take anything personally. Keep showing up to openings and making yourself known and the right time will present itself, even if it means sending your work via email as is the standard approach. Also, it doesn't hurt to offer to buy the director a meal... ;)
Listen in as I and Eli converse all things art in the newest episode of Art Wunderful on Monday February 1st @ 7pm. In episode 19 Eli Libson discusses his work, influences and new book, Mysterious Creatures Field Guide. You can purchase a copy of his new book as well as select paintings in the gallery STORE.
TRADE SECRET
What Comes First? Ah, the age-old question: What came first, the title or the painting? For every artist and every piece of art, I'm sure the answer is different. For me, it changes almost every time too, unless I'm working on a series like my "Nocturnes"—a collection of ambient and minimal landscapes. When I approach a blank canvas, one of two things is usually true. Either I have a crystal-clear idea of what I'm painting, down to the meaning of every element, or I just go with the flow, letting the forces of inspiration do the heavy lifting. The muses never explicitly share their thoughts, so sometimes I'm left to wonder about a painting's meaning myself. Of course, the truth is never so black and white; each painting is a combination of these two scenarios. No matter how well-defined an image is in my mind, once I'm at the easel, the painting takes on a life of its own, and those pesky forces have their fun if they feel the need. I'm reminded of the quote by Salvador Dalí: "If you understand your painting beforehand, you might as well not paint it." And while I see the merit in this, I also enjoy having a bit of a roadmap, especially for my more elaborate portraits. But once the painting is finished, that’s when the real fun begins: the interpretation. It's not uncommon for me to find new and deeper meaning in my work after the varnish has dried, the frame is on, and it finally hangs under a proper light. It's only then—when the final piece stands miles away from that initial thought or doodle—that it takes its first breath. And it's at this point that some of my works are truly christened. That was exactly the case for my portrait, which I named Thea.
When A Volkswagen Is My Best Option With sweat pouring down my forehead I position the canvas, it’s framed in one-inch pine trim boards and leaning against my candy apple green Volkswagen Super Beetle. The hot summer sun bounces off the chrome of that finely designed German auto, casting glares and glints in my eye. I struggle through the 95-degree heat. But it’s not the heat that will get you, it’s the humidity. So they say.
It all began about seven years ago. My trusty, weekly afternoon ritual of dining on the go was in a bit of a crisis. My favorite parking spot, once a haven with a magnificent view of the Minneapolis skyline, had slowly but surely succumbed to nature's relentless creep. Trees and foliage, like an incredibly slow-motion documentary, had gradually devoured the once-stunning panorama. And it wasn't just nature. The parking lot, despite its generous number of spaces, had become a hot commodity. What was once a quiet escape for me was now a bustling hub for countless others. Finding a decent spot, especially one that still offered a fleeting glimpse of the city, had become a premium. Not to mention, it brought out one of my biggest pet peeves. When I settle in for the occasional meal in my car, I crave the simple pleasure of having the windows down, letting the glorious summer breeze waft through. Summer in Minneapolis is, after all, a precious, fleeting gift, and basking in that warm air, even when it's 90 degrees, feels like an absolute luxury we should savor and not take for granted. So there I'd sit, windows down, trying to soak in the last vestiges of the skyline before nature claimed it entirely. And then, the parade of pet peeves would arrive: cars pulling in, presumably for the same reason as I, but with their windows sealed shut, AC on high, and subsequently, the motor, often loud and obtrusive, running. So much for my quiet moment of solitude. And don't even get me started on the music that inevitably bled through their glass cocoons. I'd often find myself wondering, "where I might be able to go to enjoy some peace and quiet, yet still enjoy the beauty of nature juxtaposed with an urban skyline backdrop?” I desperately needed to ditch these intruders. These folks were clearly not my tribe, seemingly dependent on artificially controlled climates, constantly distracted by music and news radio and unable to tolerate their own thoughts for a single second. (A bit snarky? Maybe! It’s just that that constant buzz of car motors can really get under one’s skin...😉) Gated Community Then, it hit me! A brilliant idea sparked. I knew of a potentially perfect spot, though I wasn't sure if it would work or if it was even "allowed." But why wouldn't it be? Even if the view wasn't exactly the same, of course I could go; it was open to the public, and it was oh so close. And so, on my last visit to the old parking lot, even before unwrapping my wrap, I turned the car back on, backed out, and said goodbye to the lineup of idling cars. Each was a little micro-environment that had spilled out and, like the shrubbery and trees, slowly overran what once was a perfectly great location to enjoy some peace and quiet, nature, and even the urban city, albeit from a distance. Not that long after, I found myself entering a gated community. No guards, but a gate nonetheless, with rules and specific open hours. Noted. Instinctively, I turned right and drove respectfully, slowly, up a long hill. At the summit, the road curved right, then offered an option to the left. I turned, and there it was—an expansive and incredible view of the city! Even better, there was a large tree off to the side of the one-lane road—perfect for shade on hot days and for cutting the sun's glare, allowing me to fully appreciate the vast, green hill cascading before me. I pulled under the tree, turned off the engine, and... I listened. Moments stretched into long, silent seconds. Nothing. Silence. Beautiful, majestic silence. Except, of course, for a few birds, the rustling of leaves in the surrounding trees, and an occasional plane overhead. But other than that, pure, unadulterated quiet. And the breeze! It swept up over the hill, strong and constant. You could say, I was in heaven. My Tribe But truth be told, I wasn't alone. Far from it. I was, in fact, in the midst of a great throng of people—people of every race, color, age, and gender. There had to be at least a few thousand within throwing distance alone. And they, too, were settled into their own private micro-climates, but car engines, talk radio, and teeth-rattling bass weren't going to emanate from their abodes anytime soon. I was, of course, in the middle of a cemetery. And where the living were concerned, I was absolutely alone. Blissfully so. And the ones underground? Well, let's just say I had found my tribe. I bring this up because the Twin Cities Death Cafe, normally hosted at the Rogue Buddha Gallery on the last Sunday of every month, recently forayed outside of the gallery walls and into a local cemetery a couple Sundays ago. The cemetery walks have become one of my favorite Death Cafe rituals, which take place every summer. As per usual, we met at a designated spot and then dispersed, roaming the grounds either with others or on our lonesome, only to reconvene an hour later to share our thoughts, experiences, and observations for an hour before taking our leave. For me, this is the perfect way to celebrate life, death, community, and summer. And we couldn’t have asked for a better location than Lakewood cemetery in South Minneapolis for that days romp. The Wisdom of Quiet Places And so nearly every week I bring a lunch to this particular spot and enjoy a meal under the tree, watching nature and the city move slowly into the future. I’m reminded by my location that the future isn’t a promise; it’s an expectation. And that, as demonstrated by my old location, even the view can’t be depended on forever. Everything has a shelf life, everything, a “must consume by” date. Where those tall skyscrapers now stand, off in the distance, there once was a building of smaller stature on that plot, and before that building, something else and someone else called it home. And before them, maybe just pure untamed woods and fields visited only by animals and insects. And maybe that’s where it will eventually end up once again, that is, before the next iteration of, well, who knows what, moves in. As I sit in my car, windows down on these beautifully precious summer days, I'm reminded that we only have so many summers left in each of our lives. I hope to enjoy at least another 50 or so myself. (Optimistic much? You better believe it!) So, it's best to take full advantage of them while they're here, not push them away with air conditioning so me thinks. Hmm, there's a weird metaphor in there somewhere—air conditioning metaphorically being a mechanism to push away thoughts of our mortality, our eventual demise. I'll have to work on that one! We also only have so much time to think and be with our thoughts, to figure out who we really are or who we want to become. So why push that away with overly constructed pop tunes or equally manufactured news shows? No. For me, silence is truly bliss. This approach has even seeped into my ritual at the easel, but that’s for another time perhaps. In the End, Live! I should admit, I'm not at this spot every week. No, I've taken to visiting other abodes of the afterlife for my weekly meal. Most don't have a city view, but what they do offer is just as interesting and beautiful. And all of them, large or small, manicured or dilapidated, each and every one offers a glimpse into the future, a prediction with 100% accuracy. Each whispers the words... "This is your future, so take advantage of your present while you can. Every moment you're not dead, live! To whatever extent and in whatever way you can, find a way, no matter how small, to be alive and live!" And so it is that I sit for a few moments each week in various cemeteries, sharing a meal with my tribe, sharing time in their home, and enjoying a little slice of Heaven on Earth while I still can. (To learn more about the Twin Cities Death Cafe at the Rogue Buddha Gallery, CLICK HERE .)