You Can’t Do That

“Who is putting up all of these teensy little drawings?” 
the Professor wanted to know.

He’d interrupted his erratic pacing mid-stride, in front of twenty or so versions of a person sitting in a chair, all from different angles, of all different sizes, taped to the wall in a haphazard row.

He grabbed the smallest picture from the line, a plain sheet of typing paper with a two-inch-high figure floating dead center. “I see one of these at every critique. Who is responsible for them?”

I raised my hand.

“You? What’s the matter - are you afraid to make a full sized rendering like everyone else?” Murmured chuckles sprinkled about the room.

“No, sir,” I answered. “It’s just hard for me to finish a large drawing in the time allowed, so I make several quick sketches, and put the best one up for discussion.”

“No one else seems to have trouble making big drawings.” he said, pausing to let the obvious conclusion sink in. “What’s your problem?”

“It’s not a problem, really, just a limitation of the medium,” I replied.

“Really? What medium are you using?”

“A ballpoint pen,” I said, holding up my trusty Bic for him to see.

Not a legitimate artist's medium.

“Seriously?” he scolded. “You’re using a ballpoint pen in an art class?”

Of course I was using a ballpoint pen in an art class. Why wouldn't I? I used ballpoints for every other class: Biology, Chemistry, Physics, History of the English Language. I usually carried at least three of them, color-coding each academic subject with a different combination of black, blue and red ink. The visual difference was quite helpful when it came time to study for exams. Why would this class be any different? 

Here in the Basic Drawing studio, it was the logical choice. I was not an art major. I was just a pre-med who wanted to learn how to draw in one semester – and make an ‘A’ doing it. If I wanted to learn the techniques of rendering forms and textures in an efficient manner, I needed to streamline the process, and focus on what I already knew how to do.

Until that day, my sketches 

had consistently elicited 

encouraging comments.

Charcoal, India ink, Conte´crayon… these were media that required an extra learning curve, additional time to master, not to mention an additional cash outlay at the college bookstore. True, they offered the advantage of covering large swaths of real estate at a single stroke, but that ‘advantage’ also meant I would have to buy large tablets of drawing paper – another infringement on my nonexistent art supply budget. I already had reams of typing paper collecting dust on my bookshelf.

“I didn’t know that there were size requirements on the assignments, Sir,” I explained. “And you did say that we could use any medium.”

Besides, even though my drawings were small, I felt I had managed to accomplish all of the goals set out for us in every studio exercise, representing form, texture, shading, etc., using my familiar, preferred technique.

Until that day, my sketches had consistently elicited encouraging comments.

He reached down and plucked the instrument from my hand, holding it up for everyone to see. “This is not a legitimate artist’s medium. You can’t make anything of substance with such a skinny black line. I don't want to see it in my studio again.” To underscore his point, he confiscated the offending contraband, freeing me from the temptation ever to use it again.

To his credit, the Professor was not being unduly critical. This was his class; he had every right to expect things to be done his way. And I could understand and appreciate his preferences: the man was a painter, who preferred to work on large-scale projects. It was not unusual to see him working on a wall-sized canvas, using a three- or four-inch wide paintbrush. Making artwork on such a miniaturized scale, regardless of detail, must have seemed utterly foreign to him.

Like any reputable instructor, I’m sure he wanted his course to be taken seriously, and probably felt that by refusing to embrace a variety of drawing styles and materials, I would be missing the opportunity to wring the full potential from this class.

Lesson learned, I reached into my pocket, and started constructing the day’s new drawing assignment using the skinny black lines of a No. 2 pencil. It felt good to be a legitimate student again.

Much to the Professor’s delight, I spent the rest of the semester exploring the monotonal worlds of graphite, charcoal, and ink wash, with illustrative side routes into magic marker, and creative photocopying. Once I had distanced myself from the wretched, divisive ballpoint issue, it became clear that my grade point average would be back on track as well.

It was perhaps understandable then that I did not tell my new mentor about the several drawing projects I still had underway in my dorm room, where I struggled on my own to work out the graphic potential of skinny ballpoint lines.

One of these pieces, a whimsical study of a cartoon ant on crumpled beer can, seemed especially pleasing, and worthy, I thought, of submission to the campus literary magazine. The student editorial staff liked it too, and awarded my drawing First Place in the visual arts category – an honor that included publication in the journal, and a cash prize as well.

Twenty-five dollars may not sound like a lot of money today, and it probably wasn’t very much then, either, but to a college student in the early 1980’s it meant a full tank of gas, a six-pack of beer, and at least one dinner date at a decent restaurant.

It also meant that a ballpoint pen was capable of producing artwork that had audience appeal, and real earning potential. I had no idea how important that realization would become in the years following my brief tour through medical training.

Years later, I was fortunate enough to re-make my acquaintance with my former art professor, this time on even friendlier terms, both personally and professionally. My career as a ballpoint artist was rounding out its second decade, and the studio was producing a picture book to mark the anniversary. He was gracious enough to write the introduction for the project.

Of course he took full credit for my artistic career:

Edward Hill, in his ‘Language of Drawing’, stated that the student mirrors his teaching – often through opposition.  When Don Stewart was a student in one of my drawing courses at Birmingham-Southern College many years ago, he was chided for the ‘improper use’ of a ballpoint pen.  Illustrating Mr. Hill’s theory perfectly, Stewart has investigated, tested, and polished the applications of the once-lowly instrument – seeking a new potential rather than settling for the ordinary.  Feathery lines and nubby textures supplement his definitive lights and darks, enticing the viewer further to seek their objects’ whimsical presence.  The visual puns of his devious mind are delivered with a wit and intelligence seldom seen.  As I have half-jokingly related to co-appreciators of his work, I feel personally responsible for his success.

Robert Shelton,

Professor of Art

Birmingham-Southern College

Birmingham, Alabama

I couldn’t agree more.

The Visual Humor of Don Stewart

Authenticity Lost and Found

“Hello. My name is Don, and I have a logo.”

One of the common criticisms of successful artists (and those who want to be successful artists), is the admonition that somehow, in order to be successful in the world of business, we have to trade away our authenticity as artists.

                          (That’s me.)

“Serious (artists) would never consider such branding as anything but a sellout to their true pure artistic intentions,” said one Serious Artist, to me, recently. This person warned against any artist allowing himself to be made “into a brand, into a consumer product, into providing art fodder for the consumption of the mediocre …” As if one follows the other.

Maybe it does. Maybe mediocrity is all I can hope to shoot for in this otherwise successful art career. 

But then, maybe the work I have already completed, the work I am doing, and the work I still plan to do, disputes that claim.

If I create it, it is authentically mine.

I'll acknowledge that this is a concern to many who ride the narrow and brittle edge of some imagined requirement of authenticity in their work. But I have an answer to that concern:

If I create it, it is authentically mine.

I am aware of any number of forces that influence my creativity: ideas gleaned form my surroundings (conversations, walks around the neighborhood, various reading material, etc.); from my past (experience, education, childhood memories); suggestions from friends, family, critics and fellow artists; requests from the market (customers, clients, market research, seasonal trends); the results of actual, premeditated, focused research, & cetera.

To me, all of these are legitimate sources of inspiration. If ideas that come from any one of them (hopefully from ALL of them) lead to another piece of artwork that I can create authentically, in my style, to my standards, and ultimately to my liking, I see no difference in the quality of the source or the quality of the end product. Or, frankly, where it happens to appear in the marketplace.

Each year, in fact, I try to do at least one piece aimed specifically for the mass market, one created for clever content (whether the market agrees or not), and one just for me - to challenge and broaden my intellectual, imaginative, and technical ability (again, whether the market agrees or not).

Oddly enough, nowhere in the list do I find the approval of my fellow artists to be a major factor in the production of consistent, quality work. 

Perhaps there are artists who find themselves being overly influenced by one audience or another, critics or customers or even colleagues - or who actually choose to rely on others' advice for creative direction. Aren't they free to do so? 

Beyond my position as a potential consumer (or unless somebody asks), I see no reason to offer my opinion on their product or their process. 

The only one I am fit to judge, authentically, is myself.

Something to Fall Back On

I must be getting old and cranky. I don't mind (yet) if you, or even your kids wander into my yard, but I'll have to be hog-tied if I’m expected to sit by and take another shot to the legitimacy of my profession without speaking up about it.

An Artist's Brain

There he stood, in the middle of my studio, this man who had just finished telling me how he has always wanted to be an artist, in fact has always been an artist, his whole life, and wished he had had the guts years ago to make the jump and create the drawings, paintings and sculptures that have weighed upon his heart since childhood, who, having just learned that we have been in this business for nearly thirty years, and in the same location for more than a decade, had the unmitigated blindness to utter what (admittedly) everybody else says, because they haven’t thought about it ether, and have no idea how insulting it is, to wit:

“I tell my kids that Art is okay, I guess, as long as you have a real job first… you know - something to fall back on…”

Something to fall back on? Are you kidding? Hmmph. 

I wanted to tell him that I have the same thing to fall back on that I had the day I went into business – the same thing that every other  entrepreneur has to fall back on whenever they have the guts to step out and try something that nobody else has done before – and that would be their kiester.

Listen folks, Art is a business, just like any other.  There's no room for crybabies when you go into business for yourself. Or naysayers, either. If you do it right – pick the right people, get the right training, use the right tools, funnel your energy and imagination in the right direction, you just might pull it off. Chances are you won't, but there’s no guarantee that the butcher, baker, or computer programmer will do any better.

And that’s what sticks in my craw – the assumption that because I am an Artist, I am somehow doomed to a higher degree of failure than an accountant or a florist or a mechanic starting up in business.

My grandmother told me this the day she found out I was seriously considering a career shift. “Slow down a minute, Honey,” she said. “Art is something that people do for enjoyment, not to make a living. You make art after you have the bills paid.”

I was sorely tempted to believe her, her being my grandma and all, but her argument didn't make sense then, and doesn't now - especially since most other professions traditionally have higher overhead costs than I do, and far more competition. They need employees, and inventory, and significantly more physical accouterments to run their businesses than I do to run mine. For the most part, my inventory is in my head. I am paid to create things out of thin air.  You don't need a supply chain for that. (Okay, maybe I and the accountant come out close to even on that front.)

At the DS Art Studio, we take minimal raw materials, add ideas, and come up with tangible products that simply didn’t exist yesterday. We’re a factory of ideas and products, and those products are unique. You simply can't go down the street and get the same thing from another shop.

Like every other independent businessperson, we have an incredible incentive to find a market for our goods: We like to eat. And that means we take that same creative energy that we use to make our art, and put it to use to dream up markets for our products and services.

We have to. It’s our living.

Were we prepared to jump into this business way back thirty years ago when my wife and I, independently, took the plunge into the art business? The answer is yes - as much as anyone is prepared to open any business. (My opinions and observations on this subject are chronicled in another blog post, which you are welcome to view here.) We’ve made it this far, and we don't have any plans to “fall back” onto a “real job” any time soon.

So the next time you are tempted to advise an artist of the need to do so, take a minute to think if it would be appropriate to offer the same advice to a grocer, or an engineer, or a chef, or a police officer.

They would look at you like you were being intentionally discourteous, or mean, or just plain crazy.

For my part I will try, once again, not to believe that is your intent.

But it sure sounds like it.

The Virtues of Failing Often

There’s something I’ve noticed about us creative types. We spend a great deal of time coming up with dozens of reasons why our ideas won't work.

I’m not sure where this insecurity comes from, whether it’s the warnings from parents, teachers, preachers and former bosses, reminding us that we have no business stepping beyond established boundaries, or our years of experience watching many of our grand ideas fail to work out as we planned. Or maybe it’s the part of us that keeps trying to be ‘normal’, and accepted by the rest of the world that hinders us from following up on our latest plans.

Whatever it is, it sure keeps us from getting a lot of stuff done.

At any one time in our studio, there will be ten to thirty drawings unfinished, five blogs waiting to be written, a dozen short stories and a novel in progress, and that’s just on my side of the room. Add another twenty paintings and portraits, fifty pieces of jewelry in line to be completed and photographed, web site updates and a half-dozen videos looking for a couple hours each of uninterrupted voice-over and editing, and you’re starting to get a handle on Sue Ellen’s side.

Tiger Swallowtail

It’s not that we have too much on our plate, and certainly not that we’re complaining about being busy. Far from it. What bothers us is the extra inertia it takes to get any one project moving forward.

When I sit down to draw, for example, often as not I can make room for the telephone, mail, orders, and customers stopping in to visit, and still get the work done. What I have a harder time ignoring is the buzzing voice in my head saying, “ You’re drawing this when you should be figuring last month’s sales tax? This picture isn't even funny! It’s weird. And only a few pathologists on the world will ever get the joke, anyway. Besides, I thought you were planning to write a book. What happened to that brilliant idea? What’s wrong with you?”

 Failing ‘early and often’ gets 

the good ideas off the ground, 

and the bad ones out of the way.

All of which may be valid points, except that when I do sit down to write, the guilt monster inside my head starts yammering on about the artwork: “Shouldn't you be working on that medical picture? You say you're an artist, but how many things did you actually draw last year – like, three maybe?”

I see it all the time in other artists, too. They’ll come up with a terrific idea, create an incredible new something, then drop it and move on to the next thing that catches their interest. When asked why they never developed the idea, there are a thousand reasons why it just wouldn't have worked.

“No one would pay money for that.” (And yet somehow you sold the first one.)

“They would cost too much to make.” (Which is why you figure out a way to make a lot of them, so that the cost per item is manageable – and find a way to fund the process while you're doing it.)

“It was just a fluke.” (You have a long history of such flukes.)

“I talked to some guy about it, but he wanted to keep 90% of the money.” (Which is a decent percentage if some else takes your idea to the market. It's basically free money, and you don't want to manage all the production, sales and distribution stuff, anyway.)

“It probably wouldn't work, anyway.”

As much as it pains me to see other creative folks let what seem to be good opportunities slip away, I try to use these situations to remind myself not to let my good ideas go to waste. We struggle with every one of these objections too, and the best answer we’ve come up with is this: “Let’s just do it and see.”

That’s the trouble with creating. You can never know whether or not an idea will work, because it hasn't ever been done before. And unless you try, that situation will never change.

We like seeing our new ideas and new products succeed, so much so that it’s worth the many failures we encounter along the way. Failing ‘early and often’ gets the good ideas off the ground, and the bad ones out of the way before they can weigh us down with second thoughts about the wisdom of trying.

It’s still not easy telling the nay-saying monsters to keep their peace, but the fact that we are here every day investing our time in creating new pictures, new stories, new fashions, and new programs means that our chances for continued success are always improving. Throw in a thick streak of stubbornness, and it’s a good bet we will still be in business, failing a lot and succeeding enough, for a long time to come.

(There. That blog’s finished. Now, off to the drawing board…)

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.