Multiplying By Zero

07 Nov

money

The Artist As Moneypit

samplex

Chased the dream, invested thousands, and I mean tens of thousands on this irrational hope that I was actually investing in and building a business, yes, a small, self-sufficient business charged with the singular duty of making art and selling it. Doing it right, sparing no expense. I did all this, throwing money into advertising materials also, although I loathe and feel inadequate to the self-marketing end of things. Persistent failure does that to a man, even one like me. But now, I have finally awakened from the dream. Yet the situation is worse than ever. The truth is threadbare. Overhead is cost prohibitive. I overreached, and overreachly badly. I listened to those who flattered me. I listened to those who said they had faith in me. I listened to those who said they wanted to support my art, but never did, not where it counted. It is with great consternation that I must admit that I am teetering on the brink of financial ruin. I can either pay for my studio or my tiny apartment. Or rather, my longsuffering, patient, supportive wife can pay for only one of these crucial items. But not both.

(Why does this plea remind me of the one Henry Miller wrote from Big Sur to all the friends and contacts he’d amassed to no avail back in the late 40s a couple of years before he broke big?). Oh, I don’t know. Like my late mother said to me back a few years ago when I mentioned him in some relational way I now forget, “Son, you are NOT Henry Miller.” Thanks Mother, for pointing out the obvious.
My contributions to the family economy have been for far too long a recalcitrant sin, plowing forward along the faultlines of audacious hope and the capital costs of building up a business as the money continued to flow out, out, out, with next to zero in return coming in. The harsh realities of today's economical downturn finally burst my own bubbleheaded optimism. So in terms of dollars and sense, I appear to be and am indeed, a colossal economic failure. I know many of you believe I exaggerate the depth of my hole, but I assure you this is not the case.

My health has been in shambles for the past two years, and I feel debased to the core to have to plead this way, but I MUST liquidate my work.

Deals can be made! And yes, I do accept credit cards. Ah, now THERE is a quaint $30 monthly overhead cost I can drop soon, if things don't change in a hurry. The website is also somewhat outdated, but much of my earlier work is posted there. And serious enquiries will earn access to other much larger work, and receive an invitation to the studio while it still exists (currently exploring and analyzing the four or five options we have available, not sure of next move, but none are pretty).

Prints on demand of images up to 42" wide are available on various papers.

If anyone has been aching to own one or more of my images, now is the time to pounce. Desperate times call for desperate price reductions. I know many of you are no more liquid than I am at the moment. I empathize, but I'm also sure some of you are just holding back. I need your help now, if you can spare. (Why does this plea remind me of the one Henry Miller wrote from Big Sur to all the friends and contacts he'd amassed to no avail back in the late 40s a couple of years before he broke big?). Oh, I don't know. Like my late mother said to me back a few years ago when I mentioned him in some relational way I now forget, "Son, you are NOT Henry Miller." Thanks Mother, for pointing out the obvious. She and a few other people I seem to attract are very very sharp at pointing out this sort of thing to me. I don't know what I would do without them. Apparently they save me from some major social faux pas like running up and down the National Mall screaming at the top of my voice, maybe naked even, I am Henry Miller, I am Henry Miller, or else I might walk into a hospital and starting telling everybody I see there, doctor, nurse, Indian chief, doesn't matter, "I'm a poet, I know it, I hope I don't blow it, I'm a poet, I know it, I hope I don't blow it." True, I hope I will never do that, there or never. I just don't see it happening. One might think, however, I was one to get into automobile collisions or fender bender scrapes all the time, or make wrong turns, drive too fast or too slow, or get lost whenever I drive down these country roads or the Interstate in my Jeep or my motorcycle when I have one, or I will go hungry and explode from gas buildup if I am not reminded by these good people who happen to be aware of the same obvious facts that I am, often in a split instant after I make a move when none of these awkward things happen, never ever, not to me, but to them, oh yes. Okay, maybe I do have trouble with that last one.

          Some men are pansies, some women painters. Cougar roar 
can be dressed up in colors neither'd recognize today,
as the paint can in time be exploded by a handsome bullet,
my name on it and a typewriter's glint.

Fame's not a fruit but lady bug's as beautiful as her core
a nuclear reactionary must bury faith never hypothesize
        nobody hears and nobody's nose, unquestionably 
shoulder to shoulder, the server pushes to spool him, 
but I'd need to check the past, 
reconfiguring absolutely 
every hint.

Thanks to all you snappy folks who took the time to read this awful stench of PR. Bet they didn't teach THIS PARTICULAR APPROACH in art school business ethics. Hope to hear from some of you (gawd, I hate whining!) as we each struggle in giving IT, whatever IT IS, our best. Believe me, I understand.

Multiplying by zero,

Gabriel

© 2008 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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