Nobody Listens to Artists

It only took a week of being a full-time artist to learn one of the abiding truths inherent in this business: Nobody listens to artists.

Truly, the quickest way to get a door slammed in my face was to say something like,

“Hello, I’m an artist, and I’d like you to look at a few of my…” SLAM!

Nothing could shut down a business conversation faster than uttering the A-word in the first person. Ad executives, gallery owners, architects, store managers, business administrators, charity directors, teachers – all dismissed me routinely, usually before I had the chance to show them any of my artwork.

“Leave a card and we’ll call you if we need you.” Operative word: Leave.

Friends and relatives often responded similarly, with a modicum of disappointment and a quick sendoff, occasionally leavened with a polite, sympathetic smile thrown in to make me feel better, and visible relief at my (hopefully) hasty departure.

This was a big change from how I was used to being treated, a completely unexpected consequence of my decision to step out of the hospital and into the art studio.

                                                  Quack

Sure, I understood that ‘art’ was, generally speaking, a hobby, for most people a diversion rather than a calling. For me though, my career change was just that, and nothing less than that – a move from one profession to the next. I had the talent and the drive to succeed as an illustrator and a designer, and I had the work to prove it. Besides, with degrees in biology and medicine, I had the background to handle drawing assignments on subjects ranging from wildlife to healthcare to robotic technology. Why was it so hard getting anyone to pay attention?

As a doctor, I was accustomed to being taken seriously - often a little too seriously for my liking. That’s one reason I wanted to explore the arts, to get away from the regimented solemnity and enforced humorlessness of the hospital.

The trouble was that

 artists aren't professionals.

After years of academic and clinical training, I knew how to conduct myself professionally, to communicate clearly and concisely in a face-to-face interview. I did my homework, too, staying up late planning schedules and strategies, following leads, putting together a balanced mix of appointments and cold calls. I arrived for meetings in plenty of time to review my presentation, and my appearance: Combed hair, shined shoes, business suit, tie with matching pocket square, fashionable overcoat.*

Heck, I even carried an expensive leather (leather!) artist’s portfolio chock full of my work, neatly arranged in an understandable, logical progression from graphic design to illustration to my own brand of composite drawings. I showed up with a positive attitude, a firm handshake, and a winning smile.

“Oh. You’re the artist. Leave a card.” Such reactions were as baffling as they were consistent.

Lacking experience to the contrary, I assumed people in one line of work respected the ability of others to perform well in their chosen professions, at least until they had demonstrated otherwise. The trouble, I came to understand, was that artists aren't professionals.

Artists are a lot of things. We’re thoughtful, innovative, hard working, and usually we’re an awful lot of fun. We’re free spirits, too: Quirky. Eccentric. Weird. In the world of business, that makes us strange, and suspect. And since our work schedules seldom fit the usual nine-to-five routine, we’re often considered unreliable and irresponsible, or worse, lazy, living off the sweat of others who aren’t afraid to put in a full 40-hour work week.

But we’re not professional. Professionals are people with real jobs. Professionals work for someone else, every day, for a thing called a regular paycheck. We free-lance artists work for ourselves, at whatever assignments we can get, for whatever pay we can negotiate. And once we’ve successfully completed a project, we’re… what’s the word? Oh, yeah… unemployed.

The working world seems to frown on this business model. Projects come through or they don’t, feast or famine, with frequent interruptions in cash flow. For beginning artists especially, these uncertainties make it difficult to secure adequate housing and studio space, or to make regular payments on car notes or insurance premiums (assuming loans or insurance coverage are even available). Even artists with long track records, substantial client lists and above average business sense are vulnerable to dry spells that can unravel years of financial success.

So, art is not a real profession, it seems, unless you happen to be a real professional artist. We all know a number of these. They’re household names. The ones whose work we recognize. As a rule, they died a long time ago.

Then there are the few successful artists who live and work outside of the stereotype. We know their names, too. We recognize their work. We might even recognize them if we saw them on TV, or hanging out at a restaurant downtown. We understand that they get paid a lot of money for their art, and we wish that we had bought one of their pieces years ago when it was affordable, before they became well known - before the world recognized them as professionals.

That’s the second enduring 

truth of the art business: 

As soon as someone other than you 

likes your work, and is willing to tell 

someone else about it, you’ve arrived.

But how do you know when you, as an artist, have crossed that line? How do you tell when you’ve made it?

That’s just it. You don’t. Someone else tells for you.

That’s the second enduring truth of the art business: As soon as someone other than you likes your work, and is willing to tell someone else about it, you’ve arrived.

You can't be that person. Your squeak won't grease your own wheels.

“Hi, I’m an artist, and my work is awesome!” will get you nowhere.

Fortunately, though, that ‘right person’ can be just about anyone else:

“Hey, have you seen this dude’s work? It’s awesome!”

That kind of recommendation will get you recognition, and sales, and contracts to make more of your art. If you are fortunate enough (and persistent enough) to string together a number of recommendations like this, you just might stay in business long enough to build a career in art.

Our business plan at DS Art is built entirely around these two truths. We want our clients and customers to be happy with our work, and our work ethic. We understand that every piece of artwork that leaves our studio is an ambassador for our future success, and that every customer we earn becomes a potential cheerleader for (or against) our creative ability, our professionalism, and our future .

Just don't take our word for it.

*In hindsight, this could have been part of the problem. I can recall but one episode in those early days when I received a bona fide art commission, entirely on my own. The client was in a bind, facing a tight deadline. He needed to speak with someone right away, and would meet with me only if I could get to his office within the hour. That office was more than 50 miles away, which left me no time to shower, shave, or even change clothes. I jumped in the car and drove to the meeting ‘as-is’. The client took one look at my scruffy weekend beard, dirty sneakers, worn jeans, and rumpled jacket, and instantly awarded me the job. Apparently he needed an artist, rather than a professional.

Changes

A while back I received an e-mail from a very nice woman who was contemplating a change in direction, moving from a long and successful career in sales to a new position as a Life Coach, using her experiences and insights to counsel others on, appropriately, making life-changing decisions. 

Trombones

Part of her process involved interviewing other people who had made definitive career changes, and she wondered if I might be willing to talk to her about my 'doctor-turned-artist' experience. 

Of course I would.

I get these questions a lot, usually from a general sense of curiosity, sometimes out of a genuine concern for my mental health. Either way, it's not a subject that I shy away from. In fact, I tell just about everybody. After all, the 'doctor' part of my life continues to exert a huge influence on my artwork, and knowing about it helps explain much of the humor and the technical complexity of my drawings. And it makes a good story.

Here are a few selections from the interview that might be of general interest:

In giving up medicine for art you must have done a tremendous amount of introspection. What kind of questions did you ask yourself? 

     How can I afford this? How will I explain this? How do I replace the one dream I've had since age five? What would my mother think, if she were still alive? What will my dad think? (Okay, I already didn't care what my dad thought. Or, more accurately, that he would disapprove. He routinely disapproved.)

     This will be something to tell the grandkids. 

     How can I afford to have grandkids?

In making the decision, was it a gradual process or did you “just know?” 

     The handwriting was on the wall long before I looked up high enough to read it. The process of deciding was really more of a process of realizing what I already knew: That I was not built for life as a surgeon, and I had no interest in being an internist. I probably knew by my third year in med school that eventually I had to do something else. I just didn't know for sure what that 'something' would be. By then it was important to me to finish the journey I had started, graduate, and get a license, more as milestone, a badge of completion than anything else. Even that early in the process, I never seriously considered setting up a practice. 

     One day in the hospital a nurse asked me if I could remember the last time I was happy. I could. It was five years earlier, in college, in the art studio.       

     

      My last year in med school, and the following year of internship were as close as I can imagine to a prison sentence. Once that period of my life was over, it didn't matter what activity or occupation would replace my previous calling, so long as it was unstructured and creative. I didn't know what I would do, how I would earn a living, or how I was ever going to pay back my school loans. And I didn't care about that, either. By then, medical training had very nearly beaten the compassion out of me entirely.         

    Once you knew what you wanted, did you have to overcome any internal resistance to actually doing it? 

     Leaving medicine was easy. My residency contract was renewable year-to-year, so long as I performed well enough, and wanted to re-up. I simply chose to let it lapse. Then I had to face the tougher questions:  How do you make a living as an artist? They sure don't teach you any business or career planning courses in the art department, and even less in the hospital.  Thought I might try to be a writer. Tried to be a model for a while. It was amazing how many jobs I was NOT allowed to do, because I was overqualified. You can't sell shoes if you have a medical degree. Eventually I fell in with a bunch of graphic designers and learned their craft, which helped pay the bills until the drawings took over.

      Even so, it took me more than a year to get comfortable 'being' an artist. It was hard to stop being privileged, too. This was not an ego thing, though I had plenty of that, for sure. It was just hard to realize that as a doctor in a hospital, your words meant something. They carried real weight. You spoke about important things, and people acted on your ideas.  As a regular person, your informed opinion suddenly didn't matter all that much – even if you knew from nine years of training exactly what you were talking about. It took a long time to get used to that. 

     The hardest part, though, was dealing with the rage that I carried around inside of me regarding the medical system. It was impossible to fight the inherent unfairness of residency, especially the foolish incompatibility that an impersonal, sometimes brutal training program was expected to produce compassionate physicians. I kept to myself for a long time, mulling over my feelings about that experience, trying to reach some sort of equilibrium. Nowadays they might call it PTSD.

      I remember that it took me six months to stop jumping every time I was near a microwave. The machine would beep, and I would impulsively slap my waist, looking for the pager. 

      It took me years to get over my anger, and let my humor take over again. Not surprisingly, once I was able to draw a funny medical picture, my artistic career took off.    

How would you guide someone else who might want to make that same kind of life change? 

            Jump. Wings grow fast.

Grunt Grudge Match

The DS Art Studio is happy to announce the

2012 Grunt Grudge Match Challenge to Support Wounded Warriors

HOO-AH meets OOH-RAH.

03’s vs. 11B’s.

Who will win in a toe-to-toe, no-holds-barred competition?

Which team can raise $50K by Veteran’s Day?

CONTEST RULES:

DS Art is proud to donate half of the funds raised from sales of Marine Uncommon Valor and Army Follow Me prints to the Marine Wounded Warrior Regiment, and the Army AW2, respectively.

Sales of these two Army and Marine prints from July 4th to Veteran's Day, 2012 will be counted to determine which service emerges victorious. The branch with the highest total (most print sales and/or outright WW donations to the contest) will be declared the winner, and will own irrefutable bragging rights for a minimum of one year.

All uniformed service members (including POGs, swabbies, zoomies, coasties and weekend warriors), veterans, families and civilians are all encouraged to support their preferred branch of ground-pounding Grunts.

The winning branch of military service will also receive an original, WWI 75mm Trench Art trophy, handcrafted by Master Metalsmith Robert Taylor. This official Grudge Match Trophy will be presented to the winners’ own National Museum (National Museum of the Marine Corps, or National Infantry Museum) for at least one year of safekeeping, publicly showcasing the highest levels of loyalty and support for their wounded comrades.

The Uncommon Valor drawing is composed of more than 370 pieces, arranged in the shape of the iconic flag raising at Iwo Jima, placed in order of events from the founding of the Marines at Tun Tavern in 1775 to the current conflict in Afghanistan.

Follow Me is a collection of 225 Infantry images, tracing the historic path of Army foot soldiers from the Revolution to the present, with emphasis on the Seven Army Values of Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage. 

Both artworks reflect a 237-year tradition of courage, honor and dedication to service.

Either drawing is available in 16x20” Signed Open Edition ($40) and 18x24” Signed and Numbered Limited Edition ($150) Prints.

Can either team raise $50K by Veterans Day? 
I’m betting on both.

The contest begins with the fireworks of Independence Day, and ends with Taps on November 11th. 

May the Best Branch win!

Left Wing Patriot

Yes, I’ve been called Left-Wing. 

Progressive. Pacificist. A bleeding heart tree-hugger. 

That’s okay. I’m an artist. It’s expected of me. And it’s mostly true. 

After all, I was raised in a religious tradition that emphasized forgiveness, understanding, and the Golden Rule. On top of that, I was trained to be a healer, and once took a solemn Oath that said I would do my best not to harm other people.

So it is that I find myself in a most interesting position philosophically, when I am researching, creating, and marketing my recent series of military drawings. This very question came up not long ago, when a conscientious friend asked me to explain how I could, in good conscience, justify the "glorification of war" in my art. 

In response, I told him that I felt a strong desire to balance my usual peaceful tendencies with the need  to support the equally dedicated individuals who are sent out to fight on my behalf, who then return home broken and changed, and find that in return for their sacrifice, they are offered little or no safety net. As an artist and a healer, I felt I could do something to help. As a responsible citizen, I felt I had no other choice.

These fighting men and women, and the people who care for them, are the ones who appreciate my intimate pictures of warcraft. If I do my job well, they will want to share my pictures with others - to support not only my calling as an artist, but also the various Wounded Warrior organizations that receive a significant portion of the proceeds from these drawings. 

For the record, I have no beef with anyone who puts on a uniform and follows orders. In fact, I applaud them all for choosing, then earning a place along a most honorable career path, for whatever reasons or circumstances might compel them to serve. More important, I salute them for setting aside their personal rights and freedoms so that I can selfishly enjoy my own. And I do, without reservation or apology. But not without gratitude.

To create Uncommon Valor, Follow Me, and the honorary military drawings that will follow them, I have worked hard to put on the skin of Soldiers and Marines, as much as a civilian ever can, in order to offer an authentic visual experience for them. In the process I have opened doors that have been closed to me before, and have had the opportunity to enjoy meaningful conversations and positive relationships with people from across the political spectrum, many of whom I am now privileged to call my friends.

Yes, I sometimes poke fun at others with my drawings - the medical community in particular. I have earned my stripes in that world, and feel comfortable taking them on as an insider, though always in good fun. 

For the military, I choose to speak in their terms, as a matter of respect for their ethos, and their unquestionable personal sacrifice, in order to fulfill a need that is being largely ignored by our politicians and their corporate partners. As a citizen, I will continue to work politically to try and build a better, more tolerant society, for everyone's benefit. With my military drawings, I am working artistically to support the millions who were and are willing to give up their lives so that I can draw funny pictures for a living.

I see no contradiction in that. If my efforts are successful, I will profit enough to help even more of them.

One of the best experiences to come from this adventure occurred over a long dinner, in the company of a retired Marine major, decorated for wounds received in three wars. After several hours of discussion, sometimes animated, he finally said to me, "Son, you and I are definitely on opposite sides of the political fence. But it appears to me that we both have our elbows on that fence, and we're leaning toward one another."

To my mind, that's the only way We as a People are going to solve our problems, by making bold connections, and making ourselves understood through civil discourse. That discourse is only possible because of a select few who are willing to die in its defense.

I think that's worth a little glorification.

Don

Army Infantry - Follow Me

I am very pleased to announce that my newest composite drawing, Follow Me, will be unveiled on Memorial Day at the National Infantry Museum in Columbus Georgia.

Based on the iconic "Iron Mike" statue that stands at Fort Benning, Georgia, and the National Infantry Museum, this latest composite image honors the United States Army Infantry. It is composed of over 180 objects detailing the history of the Infantry soldier, focusing primarily on firearms and personal items used by fighting men from 1775 to the present, with emphasis on the Seven Army Values of Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage.

As we did with the 2010 Marine Corps drawing, Uncommon Valor, half of the proceeds from print sales of Follow Me will be donated to support our Wounded Warriors. Reproductions of the drawing will be available after Memorial Day in limited and open editions.

Creativity

A trained scientist, stage performer, corporate marketer, amateur historian, gardener, fry cook and qualified diaper-changer, I have chosen to spend the last 25 years making my living as a ballpoint artist, rendering graphic puns in a style reminiscent of Arcimboldo.

The latter part of this unusual pedigree should grant me some authority on the subject of art, and what it takes to create new and unusual things, yet I find that my philosophy of creativity differs greatly from that of many friends who were trained in the fine art world, and even some of my scientific colleagues.

Recently I was asked to participate in in a panel discussion on ‘artistic inspiration’ and ‘the creative process’, where my mundane views on the subject were largely dismissed by the other panelists as an oversimplification of a profoundly complex and obscure phenomenon.

Our disagreement stemmed from a belief that creativity is something that you do, not something that happens spontaneously. My feeling was (and is) that what we call creativity is nothing more (or less) than an intentional association of ideas. The product of these associations is what we call Art. Or Music. Or Literature. Or a new brand of toothbrush.

The fact that I have been chased out of a variety of fields probably allows me to make more frequent and uncommon connections than the average person. Add an endless curiosity, a tendency toward mischievous attention-seeking, and a basic inborn stubbornness, and you wind up with someone who spends hours arranging words and pictures in his head, and doesn’t mind working overtime to get his silly ideas down on paper.

While my background may be unusual, my creative process is probably no different from anyone else’s. I imagine that most people are busy doing more practical things than making jokes with a ballpoint pen. I also imagine them doing all sorts of creative things, every day, to make themselves and their families happier. They do these creative things by rearranging their thoughts, and then acting on those unique mental connections, minute by minute, day after day.

I can appreciate that those who are unaccustomed to identifying with their internal creative machinery might feel that the product of an artist's mental labor is some form of magic – or worse, some kind of proprietary skill that is unavailable to ‘regular’ people. Why shouldn't they? Our everyday discussions of the subject of creativity are steeped in mystery and exclusivity.

As I frequently tell my friends and customers, I am creative mostly because I am unencumbered by the distractions of regular employment. Creativity and freedom are essential bedfellows. Experience counts, too – I am just as fond of saying (quite truthfully) that any six year old could do what I do, after twenty years of practice.

This practical view of creativity is finally gaining some ground in the scientific community, and may be starting to take hold in business as well. Creativity is work, pure and simple. Fun work, to be sure, but it doesn't happen if you don't make it happen. Those who take time and energy to develop the skill of thinking new thoughts and making new connections will be able to solve problems more easily, generate new products and processes, and market them more effectively. It’s all about the ideas one chooses to consider, and an individual’s comfort and experience in associating them in new, unusual ways.

My critics tell me that when I talk this way I am overlooking the wonder of art, ignoring an essential gift of inspiration – that special something that is mysteriously imparted to creative people by the ancient Muses. They could be right about that. After 25 years of indulging in this process, I’m still very much aMused.

And I’m working hard to stay that way.