When Julie Henson and Seth Curcio invited me to write for Daily Serving in 2009, I never imagined that one day this international community of artists and writers would be entrusted to my care. Over the last seven years—first as an occasional contributor, then columnist, then managing editor, and finally as editor in chief—I have been incredibly fortunate to be a part of Daily Serving’s growth and development. Now I am eager to concentrate on my own artistic and writing practices, and thus am stepping down from my current role.

Our writers, editors, and admins—too many to name here—deserve my unending thanks for helping to shape a publication that amplifies regional creative practices. Daily Serving’s exhibition reviews bring attention to art production in both well-known and underserved regions; our open-submission Fan Mail column highlights emerging artists; Help Desk is a guide to the often convoluted workings of the arts; Shotgun Reviews allow anyone, anywhere in the world, to publish an exhibition review—no pedigree required; and #Hashtags (soon to be a book) focuses on the work of artists from traditionally underrepresented communities. Additionally, our new Arts Publishing Residency, the first iteration of which is just wrapping up, provides one more way to welcome new voices to publishing. Through these programs, we support a broad community of arts workers.

We have a lot to be proud of, and it would be remiss of me to fail to mention in particular the way in which our current team has shaped Daily Serving to reflect progressive values and concerns of equity and representation. We track the articles that we publish, and between September 6, 2016, and June 2, 2017, we published 192 original articles; 62% of our features presented artwork by, or highlighted the voices of, diverse arts workers and people of color. We value the contributions of diverse perspectives and recognize our role in actively responding to the dynamic arts community by creating space.

Since May 2013, when Patricia Maloney purchased Daily Serving to be a sister site to Art Practical, we on the administrative team have discussed amalgamating the two sites in order to eliminate redundancies. Over the last four and a half years, Kara Q. Smith, the editor in chief of Art Practical, and I have experimented with the location, timing, and format of the articles that appear on the two sites, each year tweaking the arrangement to see what suits our audiences best. This tinkering only strengthened our resolve to combine the best of both publications into one, and beginning in October, Daily Serving’s columns and West Coast reviews will be published on Art Practical (the current site will remain as an archive). Our stalwart editors and copyeditor will also transition to Art Practical; and in order to give this combined publication a new vision, Daily Serving’s current senior editor, Vivian Sming, will become the new editor in chief. I have enormous confidence in Vivian’s leadership abilities. She will bring innovation and a fresh perspective to this enterprise, while maintaining Daily Serving’s vision for an equitable and accessible art world.

I’m reminded of the words of author Susie Hinton—she of The Outsiders fame—who said, “How a piece ends is very important to me. […] I love to write ending lines; usually, I know them first and write toward them.” None of us involved in the nearly eleven-year history of Daily Serving knew how or when it would end—we only knew we were working toward a sum that was greater than its parts. Now that we have created a successful model, it’s time for a fresh challenge. I hope you will join me in being part of Art Practical’s readership this October, when Vivian and the Daily Serving/Art Practical team unveil the next iteration of trustworthy and brave critical arts discourse.

I am a midcareer (female) artist married to an established (male) artist. Throughout our relationship I have endured innumerable comments and actions that validate my husband and cast me into the shadows. At social events I will be standing by my husband as he is introduced as an artist, and I am introduced with only my first name (if introduced at all). In one particularly memorable/awful dinner after an opening, his gallerist at the time literally told me to get up from my seat because “artists sit at this table, wives and girlfriends are over there” (meaning another table). I get that he is more established than I am, but I also have an MFA, frequently show my work, am invited to give artist talks, and teach at a university. Recently we collaborated on a project—which overall was a good experience—but I am dismayed to see social-media posts that only credit him. On the night of the opening, one of the gallery staff said to me, “Isn’t [husband’s name]’s installation great?!” We had both attended meetings at the gallery (with this person in attendance), had both been included on logistical emails (with this person cc’ed), both responded to requests for information, and it was obvious that the two of us brought separate components to the installation. Yet I was erased. The times I have spoken up to correct these situations (saying, “I’m an artist too!”) have been awkward, and I know I come across as a bitch, petty, insecure, etc. The sexism of the art world astounds me…but I’m not sure what I can do.

Nancy Spero. Picasso and Frederick’s of Hollywood, 1990; handprinted collage on paper; two parts, each 17.25 x 109.625 in.

Thank you for this question, even though it gave me flashbacks. I, too, am a woman artist with a male-artist partner, and have experienced similar treatment. I remember being goggle-eyed with astonishment when a nonprofit director heartily thanked my husband for his contribution to their annual fundraising auction—a contribution of my artwork that I had donated! No doubt thousands of other women could provide comparable examples. A friend and I call the automatic credit that men seem to accrue merely by existing the penis award. And it’s atrocious.

Your plaintive, “I was erased,” breaks my heart. This is the fundamental charge of sexism—that women are not full human beings who deserve equal respect, attention, pay, healthcare, or credit for their accomplishments. The message is that you are less than your husband. This is gravely injurious, not only directly to you, but to your business partnerships, your potential friendships, your marriage, and your sanity.

Sexism must be tackled head-on, and women can’t be the only ones on the battlefield. Therefore, the first thing that has to happen is that your husband has to start speaking up on your behalf when these attacks occur in front of him. In introductions, if you are sidelined by, “…and this is his wife,” he must say, “Jane Lastname. My wife is also an artist, and we sometimes collaborate.” If someone barks at you to sit at the “wives’ table”—oh, how odious is this phrase!—he must step in and say, “There must be a misunderstanding. Jane is also an artist.” When articles and Instagram posts and tweets are published citing only your husband for work that is collaborative, he must split with you the labor of contacting the authors and requesting a correction. Men are responsible for patriarchy, and thus are at least 50 percent responsible for dismantling it.

But what about the times when your husband isn’t there? When correcting someone makes you feel like “a bitch, petty, insecure”? This is where some scripts and roleplay can come in handy. What would a secure response look and sound like? Consider this: You are only stating facts. I am an artist. This work was a collaboration. Your article contains a citation that is incorrect. I want you to imagine every scenario in which you have been erased, ignored, and slighted. Write your memories down. Then rewrite the scenarios as a series of short scripts in which the snubs are the same but you are playing a slightly different self—a cool, magnanimous character who is sadly and temporarily surrounded by intellectual lightweights. Think two parts Rosalind Russell, one part Mr. T. It might go something like this:

Gallery staff: Isn’t [husband’s name]’s installation great?!

You: [deep breath, charming smile, small genuine laugh, eye contact like laser beams] I’m glad you think so! He and I collaborated, I’m happy to hear that our work is successful.

My dear, you are a queen—regardless of who does or does not recognize it—and if you aren’t yet adept at handing out a correction that drips with long-suffering noblesse oblige, go study the movie Auntie Mame and then take your scripts into the bathroom and practice in the mirror until you feel more comfortable with straightening these simpletons out. Unfortunately, we live in a world full of people who have either never learned or are unwilling to behave with egalitarianism. These situations are something you will continue to deal with, so why not build an arsenal of strategies that allow you to navigate other people’s idiotic failings with elan? You won’t fix the world in a single go, but at least you’ll have some fun with it. The best middle finger is the one that’s raised with gaiety.

If you’re not already meeting with other women artists, please look for groups (or start your own) that can help support your practice and your overall mental health: Meetup, a campus group of fellow art-faculty members, ArtTable, and Women’s Caucus for Art are just a few suggestions. Try to meet regularly with other women, and work out a few strategic plans for supporting each other in the studio, at openings, and on social media. If we can’t rely on the penis award, we ought to be able to rely on each other. Good luck!

I am often torn when applying for jobs, residencies, and grants when it comes to the references section. Is it better to list the names of people you do not know very well but carry more name recognition, or to list the names of lesser-known people you know well and would give you a very good reference? I often don’t ask people with “name recognition” (that I might know as acquaintances) because I worry they will think I am using them. How much weight does who you know carry in an application? What is the etiquette of asking people to serve as references?

Gerda Scheepers. Taras Bookies, 2009; mixed media; installation view at Sprüth Magers Berlin.

“It’s not what you know, it’s who,” the old adage goes. To be honest, I fall victim to this manner of thinking as often as anyone else, even when I’m the one being asked to supply the recommendation. A few months ago, when a colleague asked me to serve as a reference, my initial response was, “Wouldn’t you rather have someone with more clout?” I assumed that she must have far more important people in her corner, and that in the squishy place that we call the “art world”—where social capital outstrips nearly every other cultural marker of success—a tepid reference from a Big Name would count for more than an enthusiastic endorsement from little old me.

As it turns out, I was wrong. I did a lot of research to answer your question, and nearly everyone said  that they’d rather have a strong recommendation from an informed source. My colleague had been right to ask me rather than someone with more name recognition, because she and I went to school together and have conducted studio visits since then, so I’m very familiar with her process and her work ethic. Our long association means that I can speak directly to her growth as an artist, and I can attest to her commitment.

Don’t get tripped up, as I did, by thinking that name recognition is always going to be more meaningful than firsthand knowledge and genuine interest. The Alliance of Artists Communities says, “While some major awards are interested in the who’s-who references, residency programs are interested in your seriousness as an artist, your dedication to a creative practice, and your ability to live in a close-knit community of others. If the program asks for letters of recommendation, ask your references to speak to these points, rather than simply what a wonderful artist […] you are.” Simply put, your recommender should be able to discuss your work performance and speak cogently about your talents and abilities. It’s best if they have a clear understanding of your work and can tell the story of who you are as an artist. Someone who has spent time with you can also talk about your personality and character (your so-called soft skills), which is often important for residency and job applications. Ask for references from the people who can provide an insider’s perspective.

As far as etiquette goes, the normal rules of making a request apply: Try to ask early when possible, make it easy on your recommenders by suppling as much information as you can, and thank them profusely when they say yes. Be sure to tell your references what you are applying for, and why. Along with your request, you should send details about your application and your letter of intent or project proposal, even if it’s not finalized. In my experience, most recommenders will ask you to write a letter that they can edit and submit, but if the application doesn’t require a letter (some only require a phone number for a verbal reference), be prepared to provide your recommender with an outline of the specific experience and skills that qualify you for the residency, grant, or job. Under no circumstances should you exaggerate your accomplishments (and for Pete’s sake, never lie), but don’t be bashful, either—this is your time to shine. Application reviewers really want to be convinced, so false modesty generally isn’t a winning strategy. (If you are a woman drafting your own letter, or you are a recommender writing a letter for a woman, please read this first). Is writing not your thing? That’s okay, there are tons of recommendation-letter examples online that will help you get started.

In looking for samples, I came across this piece of advice: “A person who has worked closely with you or known you for a significant period of time will have more to say about you and will be able to offer specific examples to back up opinions. Someone who doesn’t know you very well, on the other hand, may struggle to come up with supporting details. The result might be a vague reference that doesn’t do anything to make you stand out as a candidate.” Reading this, I recalled how once, while attending a conference, I received a phone call from a granting institution asking me why I thought a colleague should receive a $25,000 award. (I knew this call was coming, but didn’t know exactly when.) I ducked into a hallway, and though I didn’t have my notes with me, I had known the artist in question for over a decade, so I was easily able to talk about her work ethic, her place in the regional community, and her continuing promise as an artist. As I described her personal and professional advancements, I started to get a bit worked up. I remember saying, “[This artist] is on track to become a respected public elder in the arts community. You should give her this award, she’s earned it.” The reviewer responded, “Thank you, that’s just what I needed to hear.” Would a big-name curator with a passing acquaintance to her work have been able to make the same passionate argument for her value? Probably not. She got the award—now go get yours. Good luck!

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Long story short, I finished my MFA and moved back home to deal with some of my debt before I move to a bigger city with galleries and opportunities, etc. I only plan to be here for a year or so. I’m trying to remain active so that there aren’t bare spots on my CV—doing shows in cafes and bookstores, lobby galleries, things like that. My family and friends seem generally supportive, but they still ask skeptical or frustrating questions like, “Are you still painting?” “How long did it take you to paint that?” “What does that mean?” “Do sell your work?” How do I answer?

Julie Mehretu. Untitled (Skybox), 1999; ink and watercolor on three overlaid vellum sheets pinned on board; 18 x 24 in.

There’s no shame—or at least there oughtn’t be—in exercising some sober options to get your financial house in order. In the long run, you may be setting yourself up for more stability than a graduating MFA who ends up further in debt by heading straight to the Big City in an attempt to fast-track a career. However, it sounds like you’re a bit isolated, and anyone in your position might be tempted to make biased, self-denigrating comparisons. If your peers have taken other routes that currently seem more advantageous, then you might have the sense of being overlooked or delayed in your progress. And after the rush and rigor of an academic program, many newly graduated artists initially feel estranged from their own practices. Taken in aggregate, all this might be enough to make an artist feel defensive, and it’s possible that you are hearing questions like, “Are you still painting?” through the lens of some insecurities. Perhaps these questions aren’t skeptical; maybe the questioners just don’t understand how an art practice or a career in the arts work.

In any case, the easiest way to answer these sorts of questions is to answer the questions. “Are you still painting?” “Yes.” “How long did it take you to paint that?” “I don’t know.” “Do you sell your work?” “Yes, thank you. I take cash, checks, and PayPal.” And surely, when asked what an artwork or a motif means, your MFA crit-group training will aid you in making something up on the spot.

Endeavor to reserve a little compassion for yourself, and some empathy for others. Remember that the MFA is a specialist degree that has endowed you with a technical vocabulary. Imagine yourself talking to someone with an equally specific body of knowledge that’s foreign to you, like a linguist or a plumber or a key grip. Imagine that, despite your genuine interest, your conversation might be awkward or stilted because you understand only the broadest outlines of what they actually do all day: “So, uh, do you get to hang out with famous actors on set?” Our key grip could now roll her eyes and sigh, or she could meet your enthusiasm with patience and kindness: “Not often, because I work directly with the lighting. But sometimes I help with the blocking, which is lining up the actors with the best audience sight lines.” Though they may occasionally frustrate you, try to assume that your questioners have good intentions, and do what you can to enlighten them about an artist’s practice and career.

The best counterbalance to your frustration is to have a community that you can talk to. If you aren’t already doing it, line up studio visits (or laptop studio visits) with other artists, critics, and art professors in your area. Use Skype to keep in touch with your MFA colleagues. If occasional trips to a city nearby won’t break the bank, consider going a few times to visit galleries and museums, and to meet with people who share both your interests and your specialist insights. If you can make a trip to the place you’d like to eventually live, you could work strategically to make contacts well in advance of moving. The important thing is to focus on the activities that support your practice: making your work, talking with your peers, and looking at what’s happening in the art world(s). If you concentrate your attention on the things that bolster your efforts, you won’t have time to get annoyed. Good luck!

Do you have any advice for an artist seeking an art teaching position? I have an MFA in drawing and work across all mediums. I once led a two-week workshop with college students, but all applications ask for at least two years of post-graduate-school college-level teaching experience. Any ideas how to burrow my way through the crust of the academia?

Bob and Roberta Smith. All Schools Should Be Art Schools, n.d.

Thanks for your question. In a recent conversation with a friend, I admitted that in the middle of our current political and humanitarian crisis, it’s hard for me to see the value of writing an arts-advice column—it hardly feels like I’m going to change lives here. But then I was reminded that we all still have to deal with quotidian responsibilities, including finding jobs so that we can support ourselves and others. I hope this advice gives you a useful direction.

Your conundrum is a classic catch-22: How are you supposed to get experience in teaching when all the teaching jobs require prior experience? To find the answer, I reached out to a handful of professors who have recently sat on hiring committees (all requested anonymity). If you’re serious about teaching, here are some strategies they recommend to help you on your way.

Look for adjunct positions at institutions where you have a contacts: “[In adjunct hiring], one person is making the decision, versus a hiring committee [for tenure-track] where personal relationships don’t count for as much. This person should appeal to former teachers to see if they might throw an adjunct position their way.” Start by reconnecting with your old department chair: “An entry-level position is usually at the discretion of the program chair/director.” Don’t bother with tenure-track jobs unless you’re on your way to becoming an art star.

Speaking of art stars: “Focus on your work. People are always more likely to take a chance on an artist who’s active and producing interesting work. Perhaps write a bit about other people’s work, so that you clarify and publish your thoughts about art.” Another professor agreed: “Show your work as much as possible; have a solo exhibition somewhere visible, find people to write about it, and make as many friends in the field as you can. It helps if the work is good, or at least liked by the right people.”

Gain some related experience: “Send your CV to fine-arts departments and ask them if they would be interested in having you do studio units with their students. Or perhaps even connect with students and ask them if you can do studio visits. If they enjoy/value the experience they will doubtless recommend you further.” Some graduate programs let the students choose their own advisers (mine did) and they maintain a list of potential advisers in the community, so don’t be afraid to reach out; probably the best contacts here are department chairs and program managers.

Get some momentum by teaching at community colleges, art-academy summer sessions, and/or university extension programs so that you can collect images of student work. “Search committees I have been a part of tend to focus on examples of student work rather than how much experience you may or may not have. The committee wants to see a diversity of work which is strong and importantly does not look like knock-offs of your own work.” Again, you’ll want to find the contact info for the program manager, then submit a proposal for a class and follow up with a meeting to discuss your ideas and enthusiasm.

Above all: “Keep visible, keep working, thinking, talking (networking), and trying. If you’re determined (and good) you will get there, even if it takes a bit longer than you anticipate.” Good luck!

I’m updating my CV and visited a friend’s website to clarify the details of a collaborative piece we worked on a few years ago. While looking for that project, I came across a different listing that we also shared, a two-person exhibition that he has billed as a solo exhibition. A gallery approached us wanting to do a two-person show. He and I both showed independent and collaborative pieces (I think we each had two pieces that were not collaborative, but which provided context for the collaborative pieces); but the project that the show was named for was completely collaborative (we devised the concept together, titled it, checked in with one another as the pieces developed, etc.). I have this billed on my CV as a two-person exhibition, he has it listed as a solo exhibition. He is someone I call a friend, someone whose work I respect very much. How do I deal with this?

Louise Lawler. Who Says, Who Shows, Who Counts, 1990; set of three Chablis glasses with glass shelf and brackets; 8.50 x 14.00 x 4.25 in.

I once read that “the world takes you at your own estimation,” and I think this is invariably true—otherwise, how else to account for all the charlatans and double-dealers in high office? This phenomenon is especially evident within the confines of the contemporary art world, where egos are fragile, artistic value is often reduced to perceptions of visibility, and there’s a free-floating notion that you’re only as interesting as the last show you did. By fudging the facts on his CV, your friend has committed a minor fraud in an attempt to raise his own value in the eyes of the art world. I imagine that there are two parts to your distress: The first is the sense of hurt involved in having your name and work erased by a friend; the second is the frustration we all feel when we see someone else breaking the rules in order to get ahead. Let’s address these in turn.

On the whole, artists are ambitious people; it’s a long slog in the studio, and all of us like to feel as though we are being recognized for our efforts. It’s fundamentally human to want to be seen as an important, accomplished member of a community, one whose work is appreciated. What’s more, in the art world, recognition tends to translate into more and better opportunities—residencies, awards, and exhibitions. Of course, there’s a very clear hierarchy to this system—a two-person show is perceived as a rung further down the ladder than a solo, and therefore less valuable in proving that your work is respected. So in order to shore up his own insecurities about his value in this system, your former collaborator told a little lie. To address the situation, you might simply email him and say, “I’m updating my CV and noticed that you have our two-person show at Gallery X listed as a solo. Is there a particular rationale for that?” The mere act of calling him on it might be enough to make him correct the record; but if not, you might follow up by saying that you find his decision troublesome, because it wipes out both your own efforts and the collaborative goodwill between you. Whatever way you decide to approach the situation, it’s important (for your own sake) to find a smidge of compassion for this person. He is so anxious about his standing that he was willing to jeopardize his integrity and your friendship just to add another solo show to his CV. To be clear: Your friend has behaved poorly, and the situation is a bit tragic, but no matter how he responds or what he does with his CV, his behavior doesn’t reflect on you.

Now let’s get to the second part: dealing with the apprehension of watching someone cheat to get ahead. This is a tougher situation with much deeper implications, and such an issue raises all sorts of moral questions: Do other people think that sort of thing is okay? Is everyone else cheating? Maybe I should just put “solo show” on my CV? I’m sure it is not news to you that some people are perfectly happy to make adjustments to their ethics in order to get ahead. Some of these people will be successful, because they conceal their behavior or the other people involved don’t care—which is unfortunately quite common. (Conversely, you probably also know people who are steadfast in their commitment to principles, but are not particularly successful in their field; there are a million reasons why these people may not achieve their goals, but it is not due to their ethical stance.) Either way, don’t make the mistake of thinking that misrepresentations will hasten your professional rise. The reason you wrote to Help Desk to express your unease, instead of just adjusting your own CV to suit, is because you know that deception is wrong. Hold onto this feeling! The way to deal with your discomfort is to focus on the kind of person you want to be. You can’t control the behavior of others, but you can decide to work with integrity. Being “successful,” (whether in the arts or any other field of endeavor) will not do you much good if you have eroded your self-respect. Good luck!

How do you break up with a collaborator? Asking for a friend.

Barbara Kruger. Untitled (Thinking of You), 1999-2000; screen print on vinyl; 123 1/8 × 100 11/16 in.

Simple in theory, painful in practice—but the way to break up a collaborative partnership is the same as for a romantic one: with as much honesty and compassion as you can muster. If you’re splitting up to pursue solo projects, then you have to say so; if you’ve found a new collaborator, you’ll have to announce it; if there are irreconcilable differences around ideas, money, or division of labor, then you have to discuss them.

Anyone with a conscience knows that you have to do this face to face. If you’ve shared the profound process of making art together, then you must honor your former collaboration by also experiencing the awkward, sad space of separation. And even if the conversation ends badly, at least you’ll walk away with integrity.

Find neutral territory for your chat—refrain from polluting the studio environment with bad feelings. Explain your reasons calmly and without rancor. Even if you’re truly incompatible at this point, avoid hyperbolic assertions or blaming the other person for the split. Own your feelings by using “I” statements rather than “you” statements (for example, “I’d like to work solo for a while and pursue my ideas” instead of “You always insist on doing it your way.”) If you don’t have a lot of practice with these behaviors, try writing your thoughts out before meeting. And listen to the response with empathy.

Breaking up, as the song goes, is really hard to do. If you’re keyed up and feeling defensive, it may be tempting to enumerate your (former) partner’s faults—but don’t, even if her behavior turns hostile. Instead, focus on the positive: how you’ve developed your ideas and work, the strategic and technical lessons you’ve learned, and the way that collaborating has expanded your thinking. Express your desire for your (ex) collaborator to do well, and talk about how you might support one another’s practice in new ways.

Depending on how emotionally difficult this meeting turns out to be, you may need to cool off and then meet again to discuss more practical matters. If you hold materials or tools in common, they will need to be divided. You’ll also have to think about the future life of your collaborative oeuvre. How will you proceed with the artworks you hold in common? Who will store them? Who will track inventory and sales? You will need to draw up a written, signed contract (you’ll find some food for thought here, and you might be able to use some of the contract language found here). Endeavor to be fair, lest you end up in court later like Marina Abramović and Ulay. Remember that a good contract protects both parties equally.

Many of the long-term artistic partners I know pivot between their solo and collaborative practices; if your relationship is not already damaged beyond repair, you might consider suggesting a hiatus instead of a permanent split. However, if you really can’t work together anymore, then your best bet is to be forthright, sympathetic, and equitable. Good luck!

This question follows your recent Help Desk article “Underrepresentation.” I appreciated that answer so much, since I know many artists who feel the same. I got stuck on this simple sentence, though: “Start by identifying at least one other gallery in your city that you’d rather work with, and invite the director(s) for a visit.” Any word of advice on the best way to go about this? Of course, go to the openings, show face, etc.—but time and time again I hear what a faux pas it is for an artist to contact a gallery directly. If you are an artist who didn’t go to grad school in the city you live in, and/or is not a mover and shaker by nature, therefore not likely to quickly make friends with people who are “in the know” and can introduce you, what is the best method of approaching a gallery for a studio visit?

Louise Bourgeois in her studio.

Let’s start with a tiny shift in perspective: Unless you plan to work with some kind of faceless consortium of finance bros who have LLC’d together to open an art space, you’re not asking a gallery for a studio visit, you’re asking a person—in other words, you’re looking for a human being with whom to build a long-term, mutually beneficial professional relationship. This change to your outlook is important, because a person (aka the gallerist) has preferences and needs just like you, and you want to make sure you’re a good match for each other. The best place to start is with research: Does your work fit the program? This is perhaps the most important part of your behind-the-scenes work, because a dealer who sells plein air paintings is never going to be interested in conceptual video. Also, what are the gallerist’s priorities? A dealer who spends the entire year at art fairs may not be keen to work with an artist who only makes large-scale installations. Take the time to study the galleries’ programs.

It’s true that an introduction is still the best way in, but even this strategy has potential pitfalls. One Los Angeles dealer read your question and said, “Personal introductions do go a long way. I recommend taking a solid look at your social network to determine if anyone can introduce you to someone at the gallery (even if not the director) to utilize that connection to reach the powers that be.” However, another gallerist from the same city tempers this advice: “I hate it when artists show up at the gallery and say something like, ‘Dealer X sent me, thought you might like my work’ or ‘Artist Y sent me, said you might…’ Dealers and artists should share websites with gallerists rather than ever send an artist over to a gallery—that’s the worst, or at least it’s not good…” So even if you score an introduction, don’t put the dealer on the spot by requesting a studio visit in person; ask your connection to send an email with the pertinent information.

If you can’t secure an introduction, is it really a bad idea to approach a dealer directly? Gallerist Number Two told me, “It’s not a faux pas to approach dealers directly, but the approach must grow out of a pattern of sincere support and engagement. Gallerists appreciate support (show up to our shit, etc). When an artist comes out repeatedly and says something sincere and interesting about the shows (suggesting that they actually are enjoying the programming), and they keep coming back, I always end up feeling grateful and find that my conversations with the artist starts to change after a while, and I’ve often said, ‘Maybe we could do a studio visit’ (unless I know the work and know it’s not for me). Sincere support of a gallery program is the best way to go when there is no inside relationship. It has definitely worked to get studio visits with me.”

Dealer Number One has some further recommendations: “If an introduction is not an option, then timing is everything. Wait until there is a sense of urgency. Email the gallerist when you are about to ship works out for another major show and ask them if they’d like to see the work before it leaves the studio. That way they know that your career has some momentum, and that they have a call to action with a time limit in place. And be patient. Sometimes it takes someone seeing your work three to five times before they really take interest. Remain as active as possible and share your exhibitions and studio updates appropriately on social media and through emails, etc.”

Throughout this process of checking out programs and meeting dealers, I encourage you to bear in mind that the artist–gallerist connection is a two-way street; the personality of the gallerist you choose to work with will shape your working relationship for many years, so trust your instincts. When talking to the dealer, note your impressions. Is she approachable? Knowledgeable? Articulate? Enthusiastic? If you are making strong work, then with research, persistence, and patience you can find a gallerist that you feel is the right match. Good luck!

Letítia Parente. Task 1, 1982; video, color, sound; 1:56.

Of all the works in the show, American audiences will be most familiar with Martha Rosler’s Semiotics of the Kitchen (1975), in which the artist dons an apron and demonstrates the uses of an abecedarium of kitchen implements: bowl, chopper, dish, eggbeater. This is a straight-faced inventory; Rosler simply announces the name of each tool and then pantomimes its use. But unlike a cheerful Julia Child–style exposition, the violence in Rosler’s gestures exposes the resentment behind the toil of household drudgery. When she announces ice pick, she stabs it dramatically into a chopping block like a modern-day Clytemnestra.

In a similarly domestic vein, Letítia Parente’s Task 1 (1982) shows a woman in light-colored clothes lying face-down on an ironing board; a woman in a black dress proceeds to iron her body. As the second woman moves the hot tool over the first’s back and legs, she uses her free hand to smooth the folds of cloth, communicating care for the woman underneath the fabric while firmly auditing her appearance. The double-edged message will not be mysterious to any contemporary user of the internet, where “fitspo” memes, slut-shaming tweets, and gender-policing Facebook posts show that women continue to be harsh judges of each other’s appearance and status, often under the guise of “just wanting to help.”

Sanja Iveković. Make Up, Make Down, 1978; video, color, sound; 5:00.

Sanja Iveković’s Make Up, Make Down (1978) displaces the fantasy of ideal beauty from the frame. To a soundtrack of disco music, the artist applies foundation, mascara, eye shadow, and liner to her features—but her face is offscreen, and only her white-camisole-clad torso is visible. Well-groomed hands uncap the various elements of maquillage and sensuously twist up their contents, as though for an advertisement or other commercial display. Yet by withholding her face, the artist implies that her actions are meant to please herself alone.

In a completely different direction, Ewa Partum’s Tautological Cinema (1974) explores the conventions of structural cinema, beginning with text counting the meters of celluloid used to film “1 metr,” “2 metry,” and so on; but after three, the title card reads, “etc.” In another shot, the artist plucks the leaves off a small branch, going slowly down the left side, yanking the leaf at the tip, and then up the right, but before the branch is stripped bare, again a card reads “etc.” The middle sequence shows the artist herself, holding a finger to her lips, plugging her ears, covering her eyes, or with tape in an X over her mouth—with these incomplete and blocked messages, Partum asserts that the intention of the artist can’t ever be fully communicated.

Jolanta Marcolla. Kiss, 1975; 16mm film, no sound; 1:51.

This may also be the case in Jolanta Marcolla’s Kiss (1975), in which the artist repeatedly kisses her index and middle fingers and then moves her hand toward the camera. Each iteration of this action is followed by a flash of white light. Standing outside against a brick wall, she smiles and makes eye contact with the viewer. Although the gallery materials claim the work “refers to the objectification of the female image in popular culture,” the artist seems less to be enacting a critique than simply enjoying herself; as she blows kisses and a breeze casually ruffles her dark, curly hair, her happiness seems genuine and unforced.

Lisa Steele. Birthday Suit with Scars and Defects, 1974; video, black and white, sound; 12:00.

The objectification of the nude female body, so deeply entrenched within our systems of representation, is upended in various ways in the exhibition. Lisa Steele’s Birthday Suit with Scars and Defects (1974) begins with a distance shot of the naked artist, who walks toward the camera and then points, in close-up, to the scars on her body. She matter-of-factly recounts the incidents that produced these “defects,” such as an emergency transfusion as a baby, multiple childhood accidents on bikes and roller skates, and then finally, to the scar at the base of one breast from a 1974 surgery to remove a benign tumor. At the end, she steps away from the camera again, sings “Happy Birthday to Me,” dresses herself, and walks out of the frame. The soberness of this display points toward mortality rather than eroticism. Natalia LL’s Impressions (1973) mainly shows the artist’s naked torso as she harshly manipulates her breasts by jumping, squeezing, and lifting/dropping them. Although the gestures mimic the conventional ways in which porn actresses touch themselves, the artist’s maneuverings look painful instead of seductive. Other, shorter shots portray her belly, sucked in and then distended, or her shoulder, armpit, or ear; there are quick cutaways to a figure moving in a living room, but the footage is so grainy that it often takes a moment to identify which body part is filling the frame.

What unites these works, beyond the gender of their creators and a willingness to explore certain patterns of identity constructed around femininity, is the invitation to viewers to complete the scene in some way, whether to stand in for a lover who receives blown kisses, to visualize a woman’s made-up face, or to mentally keep the film rolling in order to fulfill the potential action implied by an “etc.” Is it a stretch to say that the acts of mental extension required by these works share, in some small way, common cause with Monday’s protest? Having stood for hours with a crowd of 30,000 people in Warsaw, it strikes me that both the necessity—and ability—to envision a world in which women are equal to men, and in control of their own bodies, reveals the ultimately political nature of the imagination. This exhibition and Monday’s protest both illustrate that poignant imaginings and simple but meaningful acts by women, even when not specifically aligned with feminist politics, can constitute a powerful indictment of inequality.

If You Don’t Know Me By Now, You Will Never Never Never Know Me is on view at Arton Foundation in Warsaw through October 30, 2016.

A few months ago I moved into my first professional studio, which I share with two other artists. They have been friends for a long time, but I don’t see much of them because my work hours are different from theirs. One of the artists is not very respectful, she keeps leaving her things in my part of the studio (we don’t have dividing walls between us) and possibly even borrowing my tools (often things are not where I left them). She doesn’t seem to do this to the other artist. I’ve moved her things back into her space and left a couple of notes but the situation continues. I also mentioned the issue to the other artist, but she didn’t seem to want to get involved. Help! What should I do?

Tracey Emin in her studio, circa 1996.

Let’s start by assuming that a crisis is not looming; some people just don’t have the same need for rigid boundaries of space. Generally they don’t intend any disrespect, they just have different ideas of what’s appropriate. Maybe Artist A grew up in on a commune, or is from a culture that regards shared space differently than you do. Perhaps she is simply thoughtless, which is certainly not the worst crime ever to be perpetrated by a studio mate (ask me about the jackass who drunkenly urinated on a shared wall, where it soaked into a colleague’s work on the other side). In any case, clear, forthright communication will be your deliverance. Without knowing many of the finer details—like exactly what she is leaving in your space, and where, and why—it’s not easy to determine what you should convey to her, but here are some general strategies that might help.

First, it’s a good idea to figure out precisely what the offenses are and why they offend. Is your work easily damaged, and the potential for disaster is stressing you out? Are you irritated by the thought that your tools might be lost or broken and not replaced? Do you just need to have a space that feels 100 percent your own to be secure? You are entitled to set boundaries, and knowing specifically what you need and why can help you craft some language that might convince your studio partners to respect them. Just remember, they have needs too, and you might have to negotiate or come up with helpful solutions. If having a visible, inviolable physical perimeter is important to your peace of mind, you could mark areas of the studio with tape or paint on the floor, or hang a curtain (these options should be discussed with your compatriots before being enacted, or else your gesture might be read as furtive and petulant). You could also discuss mutually beneficial options: If Artist A moves her canvases into your space because there’s not enough room to work (and then forgets to put them back), then building a shared rack or rearranging the studio to make a storage space might be the answer. As for your tools, you can always buy a locking cabinet (this measure has the added benefit of helping to prevent theft in a more general sense, in the case that the studio is broken into).

I’m guessing that only the most basic details are spelled out in your lease, so it would be a good idea to craft a studio agreement that deals with issues of interpersonal space. Again, this can be accomplished only by direct communication, so try having an all-hands in-person meeting, and then sending out an email with the details of what you agreed upon.

While we’re on the subject of talking face to face, perhaps you could schedule periodic studio meetings, since normally you are in the studio according to different schedules. A monthly meeting will give everyone a chance to share issues, propose changes, etc. Think of it as a regular studio visit, a chance to bond with your studio mates and talk about what you’re working on. Having a regular meeting will keep any bad feelings from building up, and provide an opportunity to reinforce your friendships and social connection, which will do wonders for the esprit de corps.

As a means of conflict resolution, leaving a note rarely has the desired effect because the attitude that underlies it is indirect and non-cooperative, and obliquely asking Artist B to intervene is not mature behavior. If you want to solve this problem, you’re going to have to sit down with Artist A (and B if possible) and spell out the terms of what you need. Be prepared to ask questions, and be willing to listen to the answers. Healthy relationships are not conflict-avoidant; start over with a different frame of mind, and approach the situation as a problem-solving collaboration. Don’t lose sight of the ultimate goal, which is for all of you to have a great place—physically and emotionally—to make your work. Good luck!

Got an art-related dilemma? Submit your question anonymously here.

I’m an artist in [redacted city] and I just got a solo show at a little gallery. I have no idea how to promote it. I didn’t go to art school and I’m sort of feral, as in I don’t have a huge group of people to invite. I’m lost on how to market the show. I’ve made a list of some galleries and thought I would send them invitations, but where do I start?

Andy Warhol. People on the Street, ca. 1980. Gift of the Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc. RISD Museum, Providence, RI.

Congratulations! Marketing a show isn’t hard—it’s all about being organized and targeting the right people—and I’m happy to help. The first thing you need to do is read my 2013 column on writing a basic press release (and pay attention to the initial comment below the article, because it adds a good point that I forgot to mention). Once you’re done reading, draft your press release, have a few people give you some feedback, and revise accordingly.

Once the press release is done, you’ll need one to three images of the work that will be in the exhibition. The artwork should be well lit, in focus, and photographed against a white background. There shouldn’t be anything else in the frame; if you’re unfamiliar with the basics of documenting artwork, this four-minute video will be very helpful.

Now figure out to whom you will send the release and images. Your idea of making a list of galleries is perfect—and before you hit “send,” I want you to take a long, hard look at that list. Blasting a lot of strangers has rarely worked to anyone’s advantage, so ask yourself: Do these galleries exhibit work like yours? Are they likely to be interested? If yes, you’re cleared for takeoff. If no, take them off the list. And if you still honestly feel there’s some compelling reason to contact them, make sure you’re sending the email with a personal note above the text of the press release: “I know you only represent artists from China, but I love your gallery and have been inspired by the work I’ve seen there over the last three years. I would be honored if you came to see my show.” (And since emailing galleries is a little like sending an application, read these tips on thinking strategically.)

Before you brush off your hands and call the day done, take some time to think outside the white cube, because there are plenty of arts patrons beyond the gallery circuit. Make another list, one that includes the subject(s) of your work, its material components, and any other relevant information, and then google-brainstorm an inventory of organizations whose interests overlap with some of the elements of your work. For example, if you paint images of trains, you might invite the railway history museum, the nonprofit that advocates for streetcar service, and the members of the local model train society. If you make collages that reimagine the built environment, send a copy of your press release to the local chapter of the American Institute of Architects. Even the most cursory Google search will be a great help here, and you might find all sorts of institutions that will be interested in taking a look at your show. Go ahead and email the press release to a national organization if you can’t find your community’s chapter—they may be able to help you get the word out.

You don’t need an art-school degree to effectively promote your work. What you need is a willingness to spend hours in front of the computer doing research, a dash of creativity, and a few pals to help you edit your press release. Good luck!

Help Desk is where I answer your queries about making, exhibiting, finding, marketing, buying, selling–or any other activity related to contemporary art. Submit your questions anonymously here.

Romare Bearden. The Block II, 1972; collage of various papers with foil, paint, ink, graphite, and surface abrasion on seventeen fiberboard and plywood panels. © Romare Bearden Foundation

I’m dead set against that notion. Daily Serving exists because we believe that strong, thoughtful critical writing, regardless of where it is coming from or how small an area it is addressing, has the potential to be relevant to everyone. It’s the reason that my first major decision as editor was to adopt a program of “Shotgun Reviews”—anyone, anywhere in the world can publish an exhibition review with us. Instead of formulating a policy that location is what makes an artwork important, we trust our writers—and our readers—to bring their attention to projects and events that are happening in both large cities and small towns. Certainly our writers cover exhibitions in Shanghai, Los Angeles, London, and Berlin, but we also attend to what’s happening in places that aren’t signaled by large stars on a map: Wichita, Cleveland, Dhaka, Birmingham.

It’s not just a democratic impulse that drives us, but also a spirit of discovery and participation. Art is often reflective of the social and political circumstances that surround it, and an essay on artistic practices in one location brings visibility to an issue that might be of shared concern to citizens halfway around the planet; we may have as much to learn about ways of seeing and confronting the world from an artist in Jaipur as from one living in New York City. And that spirit of understanding is why, in addition to the contributions made by our own writers around the globe, we often circulate articles from other sources. Many excellent, locally focused arts blogs exist, and we amplify their work by excerpting and republishing it here. Approached from these perspectives, the regional is the very opposite of the provincial.

Whatever your opinion of the Times’ decision, this moment provides an opportunity for other publications to fill a vital role; in the ensuing vacuum, smaller journalistic entities become vastly more important. On the cusp of our 10th anniversary, it seems that the mission behind Daily Serving’s tagline—“we bring region-specific views to a global audience”—has never been more necessary or more urgent. After a long summer of assessing and analyzing our goals, tomorrow we’ll return to our regular schedule of original essays, exhibition reviews, interviews, and more. From the editorial perspective, we ask our writers to consider the exhibitions that are making the most impact in their region, and we trust implicitly that this cultural production is worthy of the attention of patrons everywhere. This year we also call for a more engaged, active readership. If you are interested in what exists outside of New York, and would prefer a multiplicity of views rather than a uniform and rigid art world, now is the time to raise your voice. Let’s consider the world of art together, region by region, with integrity and thoughtfulness.

To that end, we have open-submission columns for artists and writers. For the most up-to-date alerts, like us on Facebook and follow @DailyServing on Twitter and @ds.ap on Instagram. Help maintain our community through sponsorship in ways both large and small. Thank you for your continued support.

I’m an artist with a gallery and I’m stuck in their back room. I’ve been with them a long time. My stuff has a challenging, abstract, unique style, and they pay their rent selling fairly accessible art. I’ve received press and write-ups, but no collectors. How do I motivate them to show and sell my work? I’ve been with them a long time. I’ve tried talking with them about it. They’ve said they’d show my work at fairs and haven’t. I don’t feel they’re really interested in making an effort, as they just push what sells and keep me hanging on… (bad love song here). They do put my work in annual group shows, but that’s about it. How can I get my artwork shown and sold? I’ve been hustling and struggling a long time, and I’m kind of over it. Why shouldn’t I just quit the gallery racket, just make work and not show? It’s not selling anyway.

Jake & Dinos Chapman. Zygotic Acceleration, Biogenetic De-Sublimated Libidinal Model (Enlarged x 1000), 1995; fiberglass; 150 x 180 x 140 cm.

Now before your knickers get twisted, let me say that I think your gallery is equally culpable. This is a two-way problem: They shouldn’t have taken you on if they suspected they couldn’t give you shows or sell your work, and you shouldn’t have agreed to join the gallery if you knew your work didn’t fit with their program. Additionally, they shouldn’t be saying that they’ll take your work to fairs if they won’t—it’s disrespectful and injurious to string someone along. But I’m willing to bet that you don’t have a contract that spells out your mutual obligations, that you’ve never asked them for one, that your conversations with the gallery director about this have been few and far between, and that forthright communication is perhaps not the strong suit of anyone involved.

How do I infer all of this? Because the only strategy you cite as viable is to “just quit the gallery racket” and huff back to your studio for a good sulk. Yet we both know that martyrdom is not going to make you happy; what you really want is to find a gallery that’s right for your work. You say that you’ve been “hustling and struggling” a long time, and I have no doubt that you’ve spent a lot of time and money refining your practice, but remember that it takes the same amount of energy to run a mile in a circle as it does a mile in the direction you want to go. If you’ve put significant time into building your career, the fact that you’re not satisfied may mean that you haven’t acted strategically.

So let’s make a new plan. Start by identifying at least one other gallery in your city that you’d rather work with, and invite the director(s) for a visit. Talk to lots of other professionals—where do they see your work? You might be surprised by the answers, and you also might end up with some excellent recommendations. A crucial part of this plan is to lose your victim mentality, because it’s not serving you well. If you spend all of your time grumbling about how your current gallery has wronged you, then you can’t move forward. And don’t make the same mistakes a second time: Get a contract from the new gallery, be explicit about your expectations, and ask about their limitations. Work with people you trust, but still ask for everything in writing. If that raises eyebrows, just pretend it’s another component of your eccentric-artist personality.

As for being stuck, that’s another cognitive distortion called splitting. This sort of all-or-nothing thinking is not helpful to your brain or your career. You’re not stuck anywhere. Art is about freedom, and you should be represented by people who really believe in your work and want to help you get it out in the world. You may be but one tiny guppy in the art world’s big fish tank, but those folks are out there. Find them. Good luck!

Alina Szapocznikow. Untitled, 1970-1971; ink on laid paper; 24 13/16 x 18 7/8 in. Courtesy of the Estate of Alina Szapocznikow/Piotr Stanislawski/Galerie Loevenbruck, Paris. © ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Fabrice Gousset.

Fifteen drawings in ink, felt-tip pen, and watercolor on paper are arranged in five groups of three, with each group emphasizing a subtly different aspect of her style. Viewers first encounter a set of drawings in fine black ink. Body parts such as a finger or a breast are discernible, but on the whole, the aggregated contours of each drawing are predominantly suggestive rather than pictorial. Szapocznikow’s early life was shaped by the trauma of her imprisonment in two Jewish ghettoes and three Nazi concentration camps. Yet nearly thirty years after the war, her depictions are delicate, almost tender; the line work is more like a lover’s light touch than a mark of agitation, and the verticality of these images creates an upward, lifting movement.

In contrast, the figures in the second set of drawings are oriented horizontally, and definable imagery is less elusive. The pen lines of Paysage Humain [Human Landscape] (1971) stretch across the page, giving the impression of being pulled from both left and right. In the central foreground, in front of rolling hills, a shapely mound suggests a pregnant woman; curved lines and shading indicate the roundness of her swollen belly. But where a face might be, there is only a skull. Szapocznikow’s marks are energetic, established in melancholic black and dark purple. Birth and death are proximal to one another, and imminent.

Alina Szapocznikow. Paysage Humain (du cycle «Paysages Humains») [Human Landscape (from the series Human Landscapes], 1971; felt-tip pen and watercolor on cardboard; 11 13/16 x 19 3/16 in. Courtesy of the Estate of Alina Szapocznikow/Piotr Stanislawski/Galerie Loevenbruck, Paris. © ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Fabrice Gousset.

Alina Szapocznikow. Paysage Humain III [Human Landscape III], 1971; ink, watercolor, and felt-tip
pen on paper; 9 1/2 x 12 5/8 in. Courtesy of the Estate of Alina Szapocznikow/Piotr Stanislawski/Galerie
Loevenbruck, Paris. © ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Fabrice Gousset.

Alina Szapocznikow. Glowa Piotra/Head of Piotr, 1972; polyester; 18 1/2 x 18 1/2 x 7 1/16 in. Courtesy of the Estate of Alina Szapocznikow/Piotr Stanislawski/Galerie Loevenbruck, Paris. © ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Fabrice Gousset.

In the center of the gallery, a lone cast-polyester sculpture on a low plinth connects the drawings with the more well-known aspect of Szapocznikow’s oeuvre. A partially flattened bust of her son, Glowa Piotra/Head of Piotr (1972) concretizes the gestures of the drawings and extends their contours into space. Rather than a counterpoint to the works on paper, the sculpture is a symbiotic complement that fixes their implied motion into a singular form. It also highlights the evanescent quality of the drawings as they trace the outlines of the corporeal: intimate, sensuous, and fragile.

Alina Szapocznikow: Human Landscape(s) is on view at Loevenbruck Gallery in Paris through May 28, 2016.