the gallery that wanted me to "paint what sells", did you change your work for them or walk?
I had a gallery once, small, nice enough people, and after looking at my portfolio they sat me down and said, very gently, "you know what sells here, na? Lighter colours. More cheerful subjects. Maybe try that."
I understood what they meant. My work is all old Bangalore houses and morning shadows, and I know it's not exactly commercial. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I'd be painting someone else's idea of what I should make. I didn't go back.
Still wonder sometimes if I was too precious about it. Maybe a compromise isn't the end of the world.
Anyone else been told to tweak their work for a gallery? Did you adjust, or hold your ground, and do you regret it either way?
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Baby, you did right.
I been sewing sixty years and I've had more people than I can count tell me my quilts would sell better if I straightened up the blocks, made 'em more regular, used fabric you could buy at the store instead of my grandma's old dress scraps. And I tried it once, just to see. Made a quilt that wasn't mine. Somebody bought it, sure. But I didn't enjoy the making, and that's half the reason we do this work in the first place.
Those old Bangalore houses and morning shadows, that's what you see. That's what only you can give. The world's got plenty of cheerful light-colored paintings. It's got one of yours.
If you change what you make for a gallery, you might sell more. But you might also lose the thing that made somebody want to show you in the first place. And that's a harder thing to get back.
God, I love this. "Made a quilt that wasn't mine", that's the whole thing right there, isn't it. I remember early on, must've been ten, twelve years ago, a fella wanted me to do a linocut of his dog. Fair enough. But he wanted it all smoothed out, you know, no texture, no rough edges, wanted it to look like a photograph almost. And I tried, because I needed the few quid, and I sat there carving this thing that had none of me in it and I nearly went out of my mind. Finished it, handed it over, never wanted to look at it again.
There's a difference between stretching yourself and selling yourself. And you can feel it in your hands, like you said. The ones that are yours, there's a rightness to the cutting, the needle goes where it's meant to. The other ones, they might be grand enough, technically sound, but there's no life in them. No conversation.
Sixty years. Jesus. And you're still choosing the grandmother's dress scraps. Fair play to you, that's the real thing.
That linocut story hit me. The way you describe it, "none of me in it", that's exactly the feeling I had. I'd be standing at my board painting someone else's light, someone else's city.
And you're right, there's a difference between stretching and selling out. Stretching still feels like yours at the end of it. That other thing just feels like a job you didn't want.
What did you do after that linocut? Did you go back to doing your own work, or did it take a while to trust your hand again?
This really got me. "Made a quilt that wasn't mine", that's exactly it, isn't it. You try it once and you can feel the difference in your hands.
Sixty years of sewing, and you still choose the grandma's dress scraps over what sells. That's the kind of artist I want to be when I grow up. Thank you for this 🙏