Do you, or have you ever, called yourself
“an artist?” This title, which I once coveted, is now anathema to me.
I remember when I was young wanting so very
badly to be able to say legitimately that I was an artist because I thought it
was the supreme profession. Nothing, I thought, could fill me with greater
pride than to be an artist. But things started happening to me to deter my
ambition early in my education.
My problem was academics. I was reasonably
good at them—particularly with sciences—and so everyone around me, my teachers,
family and friends, encouraged my academic advancement. A practical benefit of
my academic success was scholarships that served to make my post-secondary
education affordable, but they also forced me into an academic track
increasingly focused on the sciences.
As an undergraduate college student,
academic success seemed to create increasing limitations. The more I succeeded,
the narrower my world seemed to become. I found myself in smaller classes,
exposed to fewer students and my courses became more and more focused on biology.
The trouble for me was that my success was unfulfilling.
Academic success seemed to me, as an
undergrad, to be involved with nothing more than memorization and
regurgitation. The quantification of learning into marks and the pressure of
the competitive academic hierarchy created an unwelcome atmosphere; I craved
the ambiguity and freedom of the creative courses that had disappeared from my
life as a scholar. I wanted to be “an artist.”
My discontent was my secret. Everyone
around me was so pleased with what I was doing I felt that I could not express
my frustration. But at the end of my third year at college, I was forced to
declare my dissatisfaction: I turned down an opportunity to be semi
fast-tracked into a pre-med program. For the first time, out loud, I said I
wanted to become an artist. The effect was as though I had said I wanted to
become a cannibal.
Anyone can memorize, I thought. Anyone that
had academic potential, it seemed to me at the time, could be a doctor or a
lawyer if they were prepared to work hard, but being creative seemed to me to
be about the nurturing of a “gift.” Learning could enhance creativity, I
thought, but it could not be academically induced. I craved the opportunity to
test myself in a creative environment instead of academics—creative success, I
knew, would fulfill me.
Now, a career later, I teach business
skills to artists at Emily Carr University and every term, in every class, I
can be heard saying: “Do NOT be an artist.” (I love using what I call “the
provocative tense” when I teach.)
So how have I come to abhor the title that
once so inspired me? The answer is simple. The word “artist” has no meaning as
a professional identifier. It is an insulting answer because it tells the asker
nothing.
Research says the majority of sales by local
contemporary artists are to people with whom the artist has a relationship, so
visual artists with aspirations must make the absolute most of every single
opportunity to establish or to further a relationship, and the question, “What
do you do” affords visual artists with the opportunity to do just that. But if
you answer, “I am an artist,” what is the listener to conclude? You are a
dancer? A writer? An actor?
A person who is truly interested in you, a
person who may become a customer, a fan or a word-of-mouth advertiser for you,
learns nothing from the statement, “I am an artist;” the person is forced to
ask, “What kind of artist?” Even the term, “visual artist” is lacking in enough
specificity. The question, “What do you do?” is an opportunity that you should
maximize. Your answer to this question should be a thoughtful and carefully
crafted one.
The better answer is one that helps the
asker learn more precisely about what you do. I am not advocating that you
respond with a virtual advertisement or that you bore your interlocutor with
too much information. What I advocate is that all visual artists have a
thoughtful, meaningful answer. Consider, for example, these responses:
- I am a (master) printmaker
- I am a creative self-employed professional
- I am a watercolour landscape artist
- I am an artist that, according to the Leadington Star, is a “national treasure”
- I am a wildlife photographer with a fine artist sensibility
- I am a contemporary impressionist
- I am a fine art painter and I teach technique
All these responses to the question, “What
do you do,” are from my students after they have discussed the importance of a
life-long professional identity. Every one of these examples is from a visual
artist who, prior to our discussion, self-identified as simply “an artist.”
The issue here, is your professional
identity; your “brand.” What you call yourself is a vital business decision
worthy of thoughtful reflection. Your professional identity should help people
understand exactly what you do. If you say, simply, that you are “an artist,”
you are throwing away an opportunity.
Every time you introduce yourself to an
individual, to a group, to a jury, a curator, a customer or a potential
customer you have an opportunity to impress and to inform and you should use
it. My advice is to not identify yourself as “an artist,” but instead, to think
of a self-descriptor that is more meaningful and engaging. Reward the person
who expresses interest in you with a thoughtful answer.
