Putting a Value on Art
October 30, 2011 in The Business of Photography
The group show had been going better than I could have hoped until that moment. The weekend had been filled with nothing but support, gratitude and, not to be overlooked, strong sales. I had even picked up the “Best in Show” award. On the last day, a potential customer made it known, somewhat dramatically, that she had fallen in love with a print, but that it was too expensive. I sidestepped the question when she asked if I was willing to negotiate. Her husband looked distracted and uncomfortable as she pursued her one-sided attempt at haggling. Finally, the husband blurted out, “Why should I pay this much when I can get a perfectly good photograph over there for less than half that price?”
It was a legitimate question, but I was completely unprepared to answer it. I began stammering out a halting explanation of print quality and the cost of archival materials. I was relieved when they cut me off to direct their financial disagreement at one another, because my explanation lacked conviction. After all, it was some fancy paper and wood we were talking about. I didn’t make the sale. Nonetheless, I was still fairly certain that my pricing was appropriate. I had sold an identical print a week earlier to a woman who never flinched at the price. She then paid half that again to have it shipped to the Channel Islands.
Once I had some time to think about it after the show, it occurred to me that I should have explained that that the cost of the print is only peripherally related to the cost of photography. There’s equipment, travel, office overhead, taxes. I became more and more indignant as I continued mentally tallying the overall expenses of what I do. There was the lens I dropped in Lake Hayaha on a morning when I shot nothing but three rolls of crap. A tent shredded by a bear in the Tetons, a week of work lost to West Nile virus.
Looking at the bigger financial picture of purchases and expenses is certainly a better explanation for the cost of a print, but still doesn’t touch on the true value of art. Art inspires our aspirations and reminds us of the possibilities the world holds. Amid the roar of society and commercialism, it is how we learn what moves us, what truly holds meaning and value in our own lives. It is the only way to receive the world through the eyes, mind and experience of another. In doing so, its value goes far beyond the feeling it gives us while we stand in front of it; it is the framework through which we interpret our experience that follows. When we need it most, it reassures us that life is worthwhile.
The value of art also goes far beyond compensation for what an artist has already created. Art patrons have worked just as hard for their money, and what they choose to support is one of the most powerful messages they can send. By becoming a patron of the arts, they are in community with the most influential figures of history; among those who have commissioned symphonies or cathedrals. This support legitimizes the work of that artist and all of the works at galleries, museums, public spaces, businesses and homes across the world. Of the artists who gave their happiness, their freedoms or their lives to explain the world to others. They tell artists that even though society often overlooks productivity that is not quantifiable, a life spent wrestling to illuminate the visions of a tortured soul has meaning and value.
Perhaps that’s why it never occurred to me to negotiate with the couple at the show. They made it clear that they weren’t patrons, supporters. They were just consumers. They weren’t seeking to encourage art, they were seeking only to conquer it, to own it as a trophy. To them, it was just a commodity to be hung opposite their flat screen TV. To them, it genuinely was only paper and wood, and no words I could say or discount I could offer would ever change that.
If only for my own satisfaction, the best answer I could have given was that it was for broken boots and shattered glass. For year after year of frostbite, water-borne illnesses and time away from loved ones. And come Monday morning, you don’t want me running back to the financial safety of a cubicle, quantifiably productive, fussing over the chemical composition of battery contact plating. You want me, two hours before dawn, hundreds of miles from a warm bed, to crawl out of a tent into a storm, and wait for another ray of light that may never come.
