The Tyranny of the Gallery System

Sorry about the poor quality of the pictures above- it must have been my hands shaking with barely controlled anger and dismay as I focused and pressed the shutter. This is the kind of professionalism extended to my work by my previous gallery. Scratches on a few paintings and tears or holes in two of them. And this, you understand, is heavy, primed Belgian linen- one really must make a determined effort to put a hole in it. It takes some force and dedication. And, of course, the gallery in question got away with it because, really, what was I going to do? As it was it took me over a month to get the work the gallery still held back. In the end, I only succeeded by threatening to go to the Police and lodge a complaint. All the while the gallery director carried on like he was the injured party and I was being unreasonable.

But here's the rub- what's a painter without a gallery? How else does one find an audience? Musicians are finally breaking the stranglehold of The Man, escaping the poisonous grip of the Labels (with the likes of Radiohead offering their last album for download at whatever you wanted to pay for it) but a visual artist is probably in a more difficult position. I know I wouldn't buy a painting based on seeing a reproduction on-line, without having seen it in the flesh. For the artist, The Gallery is The Man. Ah, the tyranny of the gallery system. A seemingly necessary evil. You need to be good, or lucky enough to get into a reputable gallery and then, when you've achieved that milestone, the standard commission is in excess of 40%, these days. But that's all by the by. My previous gallery was slipshod and inconsistent enough to be bordering on incompetent, the Director a wide-boy pretender more interested in being cool than he was in paintings or building the reputation of the artists in his stable. I'd spend three weeks or more making a painting and he, for his part, would poke a hole in it. Now that's what I call professional practice.

It's a funny old existence, being an artist. You spend around a year, in my case at least, in a room by yourself (well, my cat does keep me company) painting the damn things and then you have to face a room full of people- if you're lucky- for One Night at The Opening. And you're the centre of attention. Parties are my idea of hell and I don't do birthdays because I'd rather chew off my own arm than be the centre of attention at a social gathering. But an opening is Work and to give the paintings a chance one must be available, witty, interesting and informative. Anyone who know me understands this can be a stretch.

I've got an opening coming up in mid-November. New gallery, new Director. I like the new lot. Walter Granek and the guys at Cyclone seem great and are certainly more involved and professional than the money trap in Rankins Lane I was with. Their commission is also considerably below the industry standard. You should come along and watch me perform. If I don't manage to entertain you, there'll be lots of paintings of sharks, snakes, dinosaurs and even a Wooly Mammoth... Now that's entertainment...