I’m a young curator and an arts writer with a museum job, but like everyone in the world, I can always use extra money. I’ve been approached before about “ghostwriting” for more established curators who get asked to write catalog essays for galleries and small exhibition projects. In general, I feel weird but not too weird about this—after all, I like the practice and the opportunity to think about an artist’s work that I might not otherwise consider or know of. Oftentimes, it’s not work I’ve seen, and my main point of contact with it is via the internet and whatever the gallery can send, which is in and of itself a problem. I guess my question is two-pronged. On the one hand it’s an ethical quandry: I’ve done a few of these now, and I appreciate the practice and the cash, but sometimes I feel odd about the whole masquerade (though not as odd as other people seem to; I guess that’s the money talking). On the other hand, it’s practical: as someone building a writing career, I would like to indicate these projects somehow on my CV, but of course if someone wanted to actually look, they wouldn’t find my name associated in the subsequent print publications, etc. What are your thoughts?

Pierre Huyghe. The Host and the Cloud, 2009-2010. Museum Ludwig, Cologne.

Let me run this down very simply: Your questions are, “Is this practice unethical?” and “Can I find a way to claim this on my CV?” My answers are a correspondingly straightforward yes and no, respectively. But let’s explore this matter, and its potential consequences, in more detail.

To be honest, I was shocked by your dilemma—fifteen years in the art world, and I’d never heard of such a thing! To me, a curator is someone who loves art and artists so much that he or she would not perpetrate a fraud in order to avoid writing about them. Wide-eyed and scandalized, I emailed quite a few friends and acquaintances to see if they shared my amazement; most respondents did. One of them, a curator who has had a long career with many institutional appointments, told me, “Your email makes me feel naïve, as I’ve never heard of such a practice. The honorarium for a catalog essay is so modest I can’t imagine how this could be lucrative for both the curator and the ghost, but that’s a different question. Taking inspiration from “The Ethicist” in the New York Times, I’d say your writer is a professional cheat and liar who is asking for your blessing to deceive the commissioner of the writing, and the public that reads the piece believing it to be the work of a noted writer, and to get paid for it, and to get credit for it. To use a word that has migrated from Yiddish to English, that’s chutzpah.” These are perhaps stronger words than I would have used, but the basic sentiment is the same: You can have the money, or you can have a clean conscience and a decent CV, but not both.

However, the very next person I asked—who also works at an institution—merely shrugged. In a private conversation, he told me, “I’ve done this. My boss isn’t a writer, so I write the catalog essays for our shows.” To my surprise, he seemed to be rather sang froid about this, but when I pressed him for more information, he also noted that it’s a regular part of his job; that his superior is a director and not a curator; and that he also regularly interviews the director and uses those notes for the essays. Although I was gratified to have found someone who was familiar with catalog-essay ghostwriting, your situations are dissimilar enough to make me feel that there’s no comparison.

Then I got lucky and found someone who had worked as a writer and curator, and who lived through a situation akin to yours. Here are her thoughts:

“However good the money, the benefits of getting paid to do this kind of writing will be short-lived in comparison to the longer-term regret this young curator/writer will feel. People who do this will never be able to attach their names to the work, or promote it as their own, especially on their CVs. That is the point of ghostwriting: The writer remains invisible and authorship is claimed by someone else. The contracting curators will not only be able to publish the work as theirs for an exhibition catalog, they will be able to use this text in any other capacity they choose: for a subsequent magazine article or guest lecture, all of which they will receive additional compensation for while the ghostwriter remains anonymous.

“It is highly unadvisable for this ghostwriter to include the work on a CV. The interviewing organization will quickly discover that s/he is not listed as the author and logically assume our ghostwriter to be a liar with a padded CV. Admitting that s/he was a ghostwriter will not amend the situation; it will only convey a willingness to participate in unethical practices. And there is no question: This practice is unethical. Not because of the restrictions it places on the writer, but more importantly because of the deception created for the artist. The artist and/or exhibiting venue has contracted with more-established curators based on their reputations, knowledge, and writing expertise, but they are not getting what they paid for. The artist will promote the text to represent their practice and hang their reputation in part on the curator’s. Any subsequent revelation of fraud will render it useless to the artist.

“I was the unwilling ghostwriter for multiple exhibition essays while working as a curatorial assistant at a museum. My research, which I was required to present as drafts, appeared unaltered, word for word, in the final published essays. Not only am I unable to claim authorship of these texts, they have subsequently appeared in books and other publications. I felt physically ill the day that I opened up a copy of Parkett with an article about an artist I had worked with during this time, only to realize that they were my words on the page, and someone else listed as author. It was a terrible feeling, and I don’t encourage its perpetuation.”

Ultimately, I’m guessing the money must be pretty damn good if you’ve been willing to sacrifice your honesty thus far (especially to yourself, because it’s obvious that this “writing experience” is not “practical” if you can’t claim it). You’ll have to decide which is more important: your bank balance, or your integrity and future as a writer. If you follow this advice and stop participating in these deceitful practices, you’ll definitely be poorer for a while, but perhaps you can contact the curators you’ve worked with in the past and ask them to recommend some publications that pay writers for essays and reviews. Maybe they’d even put in a good word for you. If you can get some paying gigs that will publish your name on the work and send you a check, you’ll be doing better for yourself in the long run. Good luck!

What are your thoughts on application fees for residencies, fellowships, and exhibitions? Typically the odds of being selected are very long, and the vast majority of artists who apply for opportunities aren’t swimming in cash they earn (for making and selling work). I understand that institutions, organizations, and other entities offering opportunities are on tight budgets, and the massive inflows of applications are insane to deal with, but shouldn’t they have to incorporate the expense into their costs of doing business? I know using services like Slide Room costs money, but sticking a fee on an artist with a less than 10 percent chance doesn’t seem quite right.

Jean-Luc Moulene. Tronche/Avatar (Paris, April 2014), 2014; polished concrete, blue blanket;
15 x 10 5/8 x 11 in.

Like many artists, my thoughts on application fees are mixed. I’ll happily pay about $25—my personal threshold—for what is essentially an art lottery ticket, but much more than that and I get queasy. Like you, I’m aware that no matter how good my targeting skills are, it’s still a crapshoot. As artist Christine Wong Yap’s blog shows us, the odds are often quite low: a 10 percent chance of securing a 2015 residency at Djerassi; a 3.7 percent acceptance rate for a visual-arts residency at the Headlands Center for the Arts; and a one-in-fifty-six probability—that’s 0.3 percent, so maybe better to call it an improbability—of becoming one of three Emerging Artist Fellows at the Queens Museum in New York City. But the odds are long on almost everything in life, and as a pal of mine used to remind me, “You can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket.”

I’m familiar with artists’ gripes about entry fees, but I wanted to hear the institutional side of the story. Jason Franz, executive director of the ten-year-old Manifest Gallery in Cincinnati, was eager to engage in a lively email conversation on the subject. He started off by putting the idea of financial risk into context: “The odds of making a masterful work of art that will sell for thousands of dollars with the materials purchased to do so are probably even slimmer than success in submitting to competitive juried exhibitions. Does this mean the art-supply store should give away the materials or in some other way negotiate your risk? For one to say, ‘Shouldn’t [institutions] have to incorporate the expense into their costs of doing business’ shows a severe naiveté. Shouldn’t artists have to incorporate the expense into their costs of doing business? I know I do as a working artist.”

“If ‘sticking a fee on an artist’ with less than a 10 percent chance doesn’t seem quite right, then selling the artist art supplies doesn’t seem quite right, nor does charging tuition for a BFA or MFA. But this assumes that the fee-charging institution, art-supply store, and university are forcing the purchase. But the artist has a choice.”

Franz also provided clarity on exactly why some institutions charge fees: “Our organization is nonprofit, state-recognized, and state-funded. We obtain the limited grant funding we do because we have such a strong record of earned revenue (i.e., entry fees). Grant agencies want to see sustainability and a ‘public vote’ if you will, and artists paying entry fees hits the nail on the head. It means they trust and value what we’re doing. They vouch for us. To remove the entry fee removes the public statement from key constituents (the artists), thereby weakening, if not completely degrading, our grant-writing platform. It also removes one of the most compelling facts about the existence of our organization. As a public charitable entity, we derive a meaningful proportion of our operating expenses from those who stand to gain the most—namely the artists themselves—in small but incremental amounts.”

Franz went on to play devil’s advocate: “Just for argument’s sake, let’s remove the fees. What then? We could sell each exhibit to the highest bidder, but this would mean that instead of paying a small share to actively compete in a rigorous jury process, artists would have to fork over thousands of dollars for an exhibition. This would eliminate all those artists who aren’t swimming in cash and make our principle-driven organization into a vanity gallery. Or we could get lucky and find a wealthy patron to underwrite all our costs, but this patron would likely put qualifications on what we do and how we do it. Suddenly, because a patron is footing the bill, the identity of the organization becomes compromised and tied down by a personal agenda. Who loses in this scenario? The artists, because the venue is no longer about them. Or we could change our goals with the intention of replacing funds from entry fees with sales. As our budget stands this year, this would mean selling about $350,000 worth of art. But we are not salespeople; we’re artists and professors, and this is an incredibly high number for a midsized nonprofit to be reaching for in art sales (I would say it is probably very high for 90 percent of the art galleries in the U.S.). This would inevitably mean two things: First, we would need to fire existing staff, eliminate programs, and hire people expert in selling art. Second, it would mean our selection would be done by a process that considers only salability.”

But really, what are the alternatives for artists? To quote Franz again, “We all have to make informed choices, and there is rarely an absolute rule one can apply to all of them.” Rather than deciding to either heartily endorse or vehemently oppose fees, try applying a rigorous strategy to your process. Start by researching the jurors: Based on their own work or the work they generally curate, are they likely to appreciate yours? How about the venue—what do they usually show? If you can find the past participants for a fellowship or residency, check out their websites and see if your work and CV are on a similar level. You can also find out the likely odds by contacting the organization and asking for previous years’ statistics and the number of people who will be accepted in the current round—though you can’t know how many artists will apply this time, you’ll be able to guesstimate whether you’ll be part of an applicant pool of tens or thousands. Set a yearly budget for application fees and stick to it; it will keep you focused on your best chances.

My personal methodology also involves an genuinely cheerful presumption that I won’t get into anything that I apply for. This may sound defeatist to some, but for me it serves two purposes: First, I’m way less disappointed when I get a rejection letter, which is advantageous for my long-term mental health. Second, it compels me to think of my application fee as a donation; when reclassified as a form of support, I consider it more carefully. Do I want my money to go to a well-regarded institution that provides a lot of free public programming and/or high-quality support for artists, or do I want to PayPal a privately funded space that probably doesn’t need my help?

Of course, there are juried exhibitions and other opportunities that don’t involve fees. For example, here in San Francisco, Southern Exposure hosts an annual show that is fee-free and juried by a reputable curator; there are probably similar exhibitions in every major city. There are also countless ways to make opportunities for yourself, from studio visits to pop-up shows to self-funded residencies. Good luck!

*     *     *    

Update, November 17, 2014: After the deadline had passed, I received a response from the director of an arts organization in New York. For various reasons, she asked to remain anonymous; her comments are below:

“For a small nonprofit whose programs are still in its early stages of development (with limited funding resources), it comes down to a choice of either not offering the services/opportunities at all or asking the artists to chip in until more resources can be secured for the program. Securing funding is a sticky situation, as no one will fund a program that does not exist yet, and hence the program has to be successfully running before funders will decide to support it. We are still at that stage where we are trying to court more funders and donors to support us so that these much-needed resources and services for artists can eventually be offered for free.

“As an artist, one should always be wary of opportunities that ask for an application fee. However, there are good opportunities out there that may still be asking for a fee due to financial restraints, and the artists need to research the organization/hosting entity carefully before deciding if the opportunity is appropriate and worth it for them. Understanding the mission of the organization would be a good start, and researching what kind of artists they work with is essential. For example, there is a very fine line between opportunities involving juried exhibitions that seem to be focused on getting a lot of applicants for financial gain, and ones that are truly trying to benefit the artist by providing greater exposure.

“One example that I can give is from a few years ago: I was organizing an open call involving a museum curator as a juror. Although there was only one winner for the open call, the museum curator asked to take the top 10 artist CVs with him when he left. That itself was a very rewarding moment, to know that a museum curator was introduced to the work of the top nine runners-up and liked them enough to want to remember and continue to follow their work.

“I have also been on a review panel where the jurors discussed the progress that a particular artist was making. One of the jurors had reviewed the artist’s work a couple of times before, saw a huge improvement in the work, and made a point of commenting about it during the judging. Basically, endorsing an artist who may not be the best but had great potential. So not all paid application opportunities are a lost cause for artists who don’t get ‘selected’ for a show, fellowship, or residency.

“As a professional artist, your first instinct would be to avoid any opportunities that require payment. However, if there seems to be a good program or opportunity that fits your need, it might be worth chipping in toward a small processing fee since online application-form hosting, administrative labor for downloading, organizing, reviewing applications, following up, and logistical and marketing support, etc., all does add up, even if the cost of the program itself is covered through other funding sources. If the opportunity seems like something the organizers are having the artists foot the bill for the entire exhibition or cost of the opportunity itself, then I would advise against applying to such opportunities (for example, they ask the artists to pay a fee to be included in the exhibition).”

Claire Fontaine. This Neon Sign Was Made By…, 2009; back-painted neon, 6400k glass, cables, fixtures and transformers; 19 11/16 x 118 1/8 in. Courtesy of the Artist and Metro Pictures, New York. Photo: Erin Fletcher.

As a whole, the exhibition doesn’t seek to be subversive in its mode of delivery or to propose solutions to the underlying tensions that are activated. However, several of the works use activist tactics, or use their cultural position as art to create commentary on ethics. A tone of doubt and mistrust toward the international banking system is set by Superflex’s Bankrupt Banks (2008–present). Seventeen oversize panels list the names of all the banks, as on a mass grave, that collapsed due to the financial crisis. Between each panel is a banner (thirteen in total) of an iconic image that was part of a bank’s branding, meant to build trust but now stripped of a name and institutional affiliation to back up the promise. These line the halls outside of the galleries like tapestries, and visitors pass them as they enter and exit. In Insertions Into Ideological Circuits 2: Banknote Project (1970/2014), Cildo Miereles uses currency for its ability to circulate stamped messages and questions that would be censored in everyday speech by a dictatorship.

Superflex. Bankrupt Banks, 2008 – present; banners: paint on fabric, 79 x 79 in; panels: vinyl on painted MDF, 79 x 39.5 in. Coppel Collection. Courtesy of Nils Staerk and Fundación Jumex Arte Contemporáneo. 

Another group of objects use valuable materials as a medium to call attention to notions of value. An installation by Susan Collis called Lavartus Prodeo (2014) appears to be a series of holes and screws in the wall, but on closer inspection these are made from gemstones and other precious materials, calling attention to some notions of value surrounding framed and hung art. Mark Wagner’s collage Liberty Installation (2011) creates a whimsical narrative with the Statue of Liberty as the backdrop, which is composed from 1,121 one-dollar bills. Ester Partegàs’s oversized hand-drawn receipts call out the familiar connection between consumerism and psychology with phrases like “JUST FOR FUN” where each word stands in for a purchased item. Gabriel Kuri’s Untitled (2012) uses skilled labor to turn his restaurant and market receipts from three countries into large, woven hangings, calling attention to wealth’s command of labor. Finally, Claire Fontaine’s This Neon Sign Was Made By… (2009) makes the purchase and cost of the work its subject. All of these works are compelling and thoughtful in approach, though none of them seem to turn the corner from awareness to a deeper reckoning with privilege.

Left to Right: Mark Wagner. Liberty Installation, 2011; currency collage on 13 panels. Ester Partegàs. Detours (Series), 2014; pencil, watercolor, marker, acrylic, paper. Courtesy of Christopher Grimes Gallery and Foxy Production. Gabriel Kuri. Untitled, 2013; hand-woven wool gobelin. Courtesy of the Hammer Museum, Los Angeles. Center: J.S.G. Boggs. Boggs Bank of Bohemia, 2014; children’s drawings of $1 bills. Photo: Erin Fletcher.

Cann also incorporates a number of participatory works in Art and Money. In addition to creating deeper engagement in the galleries, these moments force viewers to decide whether they wish to support each work’s statement with their participation. We Make Change (2008) by Paul Ramírez Jonas offers a penny-press machine in which to flatten pennies so that they bear the words “TRUST” on one side and “WE” on the other (which can also read as “ME”). Other works like Roger Hiorns’ untitled installation(2012) feel more aggressive, as it spits pennies with the word “GOD” crossed out into the gallery. Gallery-goers can create this same effect with a penny of their own by placing it in a nearby stamping press and hitting the stamp with a hammer. Caleb Larson’s $10,000 Sculpture in Process (2009) accepts bills from viewers for the support of his artistic practice. Of all of these, the most playful is also a work that encourages participants to continue it beyond the parameters of the exhibition. In Boggs Bank of Bohemia (2014), J.S.G. Boggs invites children to draw one-dollar bills and try to spend them.

e-flux. Time/Bank, 2010-present; mixed media; dimensions variable. Courtesy of Julieta Aranda and Anton Vidokle. Photo: Erin Fletcher.

Overall, Cann’s approach is to survey so many different attitudes and relationships between art and money that it leaves the viewer with the sense that the relationship to the topic is one of acceptance and ambivalence. The directness of the address is welcome, but the equivocation as a whole left this viewer with two questions beyond the scope of the exhibition: “What do we trust?” and “What are our alternatives?” Two works speak to these questions. Ori Gersht’s looping video installation Liquid Assets-A Portrait of Euthydemas II, King of Bactrica 180 BCE (2012) presents a shifting puddle of liquid metal that slowly settles into the form of a coin from a lost empire located near modern-day Afghanistan. Like the dynamic and unstable region it represents, this video suggests we can trust that change will happen regardless of money or ruling system. The final installation in the exhibit, by e-flux, Time/Bank (2010–present), builds on the idea of the time bank.[1] Beginning with the Cincinnati-based anarchist Josiah Warren, who operated a time-bank store for three years in 1827, this installation presents an ongoing work with video components, an archive for research, a table for discussion, and a wall filled with ways that people have exchanged their time for services. These two works left me with a lingering curiosity to see where this exhibit could have ended up if it had stretched beyond exposé and oriented toward a deeper social, psychological, historical, and political analysis of the relationship between wealth and culture.

In ___ We Trust: Art and Money is on view at the Columbus Museum of Art through March 1, 2015.

Erin Fletcher graduated with an MA from John F. Kennedy University in Museum Education and Interpretation in 2010 and an MA in Curatorial Practice from the California College of the Arts in 2011. Her research interests are in gender and performance, art in public space, and the relationship between art and activism.

[1] E-flux describes a time bank as “a tool by which a group of people can create an alternative economic model where they exchange their time and skills, rather than acquire goods and services through the use of money or any other state-backed value.” http://e-flux.com/timebank/

Sean Orlando, Nathaniel Taylor, and David Shulman. Raygun Gothic Rocketship, 2010; installation at Pier 14, San Francisco. Courtesy of Black Rock Arts Foundation. Photo: David Yu.

1. The Decline of Bohemia

It’s hard to say something new about how the Bay Area art establishment is falling apart. Everybody already knows that rents are skyrocketing, artists and musicians are fleeing, and a four-year art degree now costs a quarter of a million dollars. Even prominent curators are being forced to relocate because of evictions and real-estate speculation. It’s enough to make any sane person wonder if the struggle is worth it. So, retreading acknowledged, it still might benefit artists to take a fresh look at what has brought the city’s cultural life to this moment, and where we can go from here.

Can I quote Bob Dylan?

“There must be some way out of here,” said the joker to the thief
“There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth”

The harsh truth is that things are changing rapidly, which has resulted in a collective sense of confusion and helplessness. It reminds me of a scene in the 1979 film Escape from Alcatraz, where an imprisoned artist finds out he won’t be allowed to paint ever again and so he uses an axe to chop off his own fingers. This profound act of self-destruction dramatizes the collective plight of the prisoners, making them realize that if they don’t get off the island, they too will have whatever makes them unique taken away or crushed. Each inmate is left to consider his own disheartening future.

Read the full article here.

When is it a good investment to travel for your work? Recently I sold my largest piece yet to a collector out of my studio in Berlin while I was working there. I don’t have an extensive sales record and mostly subsist on grants, fundraising, and a day job. The collector is someone I have just met, but I feel that he has a good understanding of my work and has expressed interest in advocating my work to his friends and professional contacts, i.e., hosting dinners in his home to show the work and putting me in touch with dealers he works with.

I returned to the States shortly after selling the piece but since then have been invited to participate in a group show at a commercial gallery in Berlin that will coincide with an art fair there. I plan to put my work in the show, but I am conflicted over whether or not I should travel for the openings. It’s important to me to maintain good contact with this collector and gallerist, yet it is expensive to fly to Europe to do so. However, part of me thinks this expense is in some ways an investment in what I do and therefore I should do it. I have the money to do it, but it would be very expensive to me. What are your thoughts?

Nina Katchadourian. Flight Log, 2010–12; single-channel video, dimensions variable

Personally, I love to travel and can’t think of a better way to spend my money, so I’m biased in favor of your going. That said, I think it’s unwise to wipe out your savings or max out your credit cards. What you need is a cost-benefit analysis and a plan to work this scenario in your favor. Start with the cost part: look up the airfare for the dates that you’d be in Berlin and factor in your other transportation costs (bus, metro, taxi). Now add the money that you’d spend on a hotel (if you need one) and three meals a day. Depending on how long you’re going to stay and what kind of lifestyle you have, you’ll probably want to pad your total with another $100+ for taxes and miscellaneous stuff, in case you forget to pack socks or your favorite rash cream. Take that running total and add another sum: your lost wages for the time that you’re gone. Now you’ve got a fairly accurate figure of what it will cost you to go. How can you offset those costs? Well, as you’ve mentioned, you might see future benefits in increased sales, exposure to other collectors in Berlin, and contact with dealers. But given the vagaries of the art market, these are all hard to weigh with any certainty. Let’s consider some of your other options for at least breaking even if not truly coming out ahead—cue RuPaul’s Supermodel (You Better Work).

To travel on a budget, get pragmatic: if you’re going to be away for a week or more, you can likely rent out your living space while you’re gone. Perhaps a friend of a friend needs a place to stay? This might be a low-stress way to recoup some of your costs. You’ll have to do some washing up when you get home (never a fun thing after a transatlantic flight), but you’ll recover some money and get your houseplants watered. You could sign up for a service like AirBnB, or you could e-mail your local associates and see if anyone has a cousin who’s been wanting to come for a visit.

Nina Katchadourian. Pretzel Meteor, 2012; C-print, 15 x 20 in. (unframed)

In addition to a dinner with your collector, consider setting up other meetings while you’re in Berlin: with the permission of the gallery, you could use their space for “studio visits”—a way to meet art professionals and talk to them in person about your work. Obviously, you can’t invite other gallerists—that would be bad form—but you could talk with independent curators, and I’m sure the gallery would be delighted to have you bring in more collectors. The group-show gallery and/or your collector could likely suggest a list of people to contact.

Are there travel grants for which you could apply? Spend a couple of hours researching granting institutions, especially local ones that might be set up to help an emerging artist extend her reach. If you’ve graduated recently, call your school and ask if they provide any travel funding for recent alumni (and you could offer to give a talk on the Berlin art scene when you get back). Make a list of any and all possible sources of art-travel revenue and pick up the phone. Work it, girl!

Nina Katchadourian. Centaur from the Creatures series, 2012;
From the Seat Assignment series

How are you in front of an audience? You could give a slide lecture about your work (either at the gallery, at the collector’s house, or at another art space), or perhaps you have a particular skill that you could demonstrate at an art school—this might bring in a small stipend. You could also offer to do studio visits with art students, which sometimes pays handsomely. These activities won’t cover your costs completely, but together they could really help defray them. Additionally, meeting arts faculty and staff at Berlin schools will strengthen your network, and you might make some new friends.

If none of these approaches appeal to you or fit your skill set, make sure you’re at least keeping your receipts and ticket stubs, because you should be writing off all of these expenses on your taxes—even if you don’t break even on the trip, you are still pursuing revenue from a professional activity. But if you do decide to try one or more of these options, remember to follow the basic rules: don’t be afraid to ask for what you need, be polite, and take a “no” with good grace. Viel Glück!

This week’s column is illustrated with collages by Irina and Silviu Szekely.

Your financial counselor, hard at work.

My question is: how does an artist decide how much a certain piece is worth, monetarily?

One of the most difficult things to do is put a dollar value on your work. In the absence of a gallerist’s guiding hand and prior knowledge, you have to ask yourself all kinds of ancillary questions: where am I at in my career, is this object well-made, is it unique, what have I sold in the past? etc. Pricing your work means it’s time to be brutally honest about where you stand in your career vis à vis what the market will bear. It can be a tough call. Who—at least of the unrepresented among us—hasn’t sold a piece and then wished they had asked for more? Or wondered if unsold work might have had a buyer if it was offered for less?

This is just one more situation in which artists need to do their research. Start with the local galleries and art fairs and look at the prices of work that is similar to yours to get a range of values. This will help you create a basic list of prices, but don’t stop there because numbers aren’t the only part of the equation. Take a look at the resumes of the artists, too, as accomplishments make a difference in setting a price. If the paintings of an established mid-career artist with work in private and public collections sell for $30,000, and you’re fresh out of a BFA program, then your work is not going to sell for the same amount even if the size, medium, and style are comparable.

Irina and Silviu Szekely, ( framing, deframing and reframing of semi-accidental linkages ), 18 x 22. Image courtesy of the artists.

You’ll also need to consider what it takes to make your work and what kind of work you’re making. For example, take the economics of production into account. What do you spend on your materials? Likewise, if you’re selling framed work you need to account for the costs of matting and framing. The type of work you’re making also has a particular value. If the work is part of an edition, it’s valued less than an original. A print from an edition of three hundred is less expensive than one from an edition of five.

When you’ve accounted for as many variables as possible, give yourself a small range of prices that you think are acceptable and run them by an artist friend who understands the art market. If you have access to a sympathetic teacher or dealer, you could ask those folks, too. I find that bouncing a number off a neutral party can help me make a final decision. I also take into account the words of a former professor, who told me that his sales strategy was to price things on the lower end of the scale. “I’d rather have a slightly smaller check than store [my paintings] indefinitely,” he said, and this is yet another thing to consider when you’re trying to put a dollar value on your work.

Irina and Silviu Szekely, ( the amputated experience of Sir Coincidence Sobject ), 27 x 23 cm. Image courtesy of the artists.

I am a performance artist. I have had many invitations lately to show my work, but I am worried I won’t have enough money to pay for all of the travel and materials. Is there a way to get an ‘art loan’? What would you do? I’m right on the cusp of something. It is so much about freeness, but also, it’s crazy to be running on hot air.

The first thing I want to say is that if you’re receiving invitations to perform, you should be getting at least some financial support from the institutions and venues themselves. Have you written any emails along the lines of, “Thank you for your interest in my work. Here are the costs associated with my performance, including airfare to your city. Please let me know how you are going to fund this performance.”? Though I suspect that this is not a magical solution to your problem, I would love for your work to be supported by the venues that ask you to perform for them. That’s not going to happen if you don’t ask directly, and at least it gives you a place to start.

As always, there are some larger issues at work here. We all know of some great institutions that operate on a shoestring budget. What happens when one of those worthy venues sends you an invitation? Do you turn them down if they can’t fully fund your work, thereby maintaining your financial integrity but losing an opportunity? Or do you suck it up, go into debt, and hope that this performance leads to one that will be fully financed? In a broader sense, how much do we artists have to give away before our work has (real cash) value? Can any of us afford to turn down an opportunity on principle? It’s frustrating to feel manipulated by a system that asks the very producers of culture to give it away for free. Considered on a global scale, someone somewhere is making money on our collective work, and it’s no good if you’re contributing meaningful effort and not getting your slice.

Irina and Silviu Szekely, ( unrefined manners of repossessing devaluated objects ), 18 x 18 cm. Image courtesy of the artists.

Would I get an art loan? Only if absolutely necessary and with a clear and realistic repayment strategy in place. Debt has a way of spiraling out of control, and it might be a while before you can get out from under the lead thumb of interest rates and minimum monthly payments. After all, this isn’t just about cold hard cash; it’s about your mental and emotional health, too. If the debt from today’s performance crushes your soul, how in the world are you going to get out of bed to make tomorrow’s? You need to consider the long-term implications of debt so that you can have a satisfying career instead of money-related burnout.

After you try to get some funding directly from your venues, the next step is to look into grants and awards. Grant Space at the Foundation Center has a comprehensive list of grant-making institutions. The online guide is by subscription (about $19/mo), but you can search their site for a bricks-and-mortar location near you where you can look through the guide for free. Grants are great. Not only do you get some money toward a project, you also get a line-item on your resume; even if the grant is small it has more than a financial benefit. One of the related perks of getting a grant is that it provides you with a grant history, which makes it easier to receive grants in the future (in general, granting institutions want to give their money to artists who have a proven record of being able to manage their funding properly). Start small and work your way up—a $200 grant today might not cover many of your expenses but it boosts your chance of getting a $2000 grant next year.

Irina and Silviu Szekely, ( temps de rêver au temps de vie, s’écrire et s’en douter ), 30 x 41 cm. Image courtesy of the artists.

Local funding can be crucial. Is there an institution in your area that provides small grants and awards? Try googling the name of your city and “art grant” to see what comes up. The great thing about funding on a local level is that is gives you the chance to form relationships beyond mere dollars. One artist I know received two grants from this regional institution and then was asked to sit on a grant-judging panel a few years later. The money came at the right time, to be sure; but additionally he got a wonderful “grant education” from being a judge and helping evaluate the applications. That’s the kind of knowledge that will help him get larger grants in the future.

Some of my friends have had substantial success with Kickstarter and similar crowd-sourced funding. One friend raised enough money to go off to a two-month residency across the country, and another’s campaign was so effective that he raised almost $4000 more than he requested. However, a good Kickstarter campaign takes time and energy to put together. If you’re going to try it, I suggest you spend a lot of time researching the site’s prior funded projects to determine what elements contributed to their success.

Irina and Silviu Szekely, ( simulacrum of an aesthetic mistrust prepared on the back of a postcard after periods of ontological fissures ), 56 x 82 cm. Image courtesy of the artists.

One thing to note about all of these sources is that they don’t provide money overnight, so it’s a good idea to think as far ahead as possible. Kickstarter may be among the fastest to pay out, but for any of these options it can take weeks to put together a strong application, and the checks from granting institutions come months after the application process ends. Where will you be in a year, and what will you be making? If you can start planning well in advance of production you’ll have a better chance of finding financial help. Art is so much about freeness: to experiment, create and perform. The trick is to find financial backing so that you can continue to develop your work without the weight of pecuniary shackles.