A friend of mine recently asked if I would post an article on how to write an artist statement.  I plan to accomplish this as soon as I figure it out for myself.  The fact is, I have an innate dislike for all things artist statementish or gallery/museum didacticish in general.  That’s not entirely true, I’m just feeling a bit dramatic at the moment.

And that moment has passed.  In reality (for real this time) artist statements can be the hardest thing for any artist to do.  I’ll go into it more in a future article, again, after I figure it out.  The request did spark a memory from my artistic past, and I’d like to share that nugget of nostalgia with ya…

Riding high on the adrenaline rush from my first two “major” art “exhibits” in my “professional” art “career” (first at Espresso Royale Café, then at The Purple Onion Café), I was feeling confident and ready for the official gallery circuit.

Surely the combination of my exhibition history in Dinkytown and an upcoming exhibit at the Lounge (which I had just been asked to do) would provide me just the right amount of leverage needed to get my foot in the door.  Any number of prestigious galleries would be willing to accept my work, thus catapulting me to fame.  After all, how hard could it be?  I had recently watched the movie Basquiat (my role model of the moment, minus the massive drug abuse).  As the movie made abundantly and glamorously clear, three years was about the right amount of time to get noticed.

Armed with a set of polaroid photos of my art (which were taken against my ’74 vw beetle), I set out to conquer the gallery world.

First on my list was Flanders Contemporary Art Gallery, located in the heart of the fabled downtown warehouse district, the place where the 80’s were king in the art annals of Minneapolis (it was only one of a few galleries to survive the decline of that art market).

While driving to the gallery, I replayed in my mind how everything would go down and what I would say.  With each intersection my confidence grew until I could almost smell the fresh cut flowers at my soon-to-be solo exhibit, which would probably take place in the next two to three months.  And just like Basquiat, I would be furnished with money and materials to open my studio and create the full body of work for said exhibit.

Having done no research beyond the phone call I made to get directions and gallery hours, I found myself parking under the windows that bore the gallery name.

A twinge of doubt began to creep in, but I reassured myself as I plugged the meter.  I had sold t-shirts to Dayton’s and dealt with senior buyers in executive offices, so how hard could this be?  I conveniently omitted the memory of my failure in that endeavor- my shirts had failed to sell once in the stores.  Oopsies.

With swagger and zeal I climbed the stairs and entered the large building which housed the gallery.  I eagerly walked down the long hallway preparing for my date with destiny.

The first thing to rattle my confidence was the enormity of the gallery itself, the dimensions of the art on the walls, and the names of the artists whose work was on display.  A few Warhols called from across the room with their vibrant colors and sharp lines.  Butterflies began to whirl about in my stomach as I glanced up at the paintings, then down at the stack of polaroids in my hand.  By the time someone approached and asked if I needed assistance, the feeling of free fall in my gut had ceased as I found myself substantially situated on terra firma.  “No thanks, just looking.”

While I quickly walked back to my v dub, I thought to myself, “obviously they’re not ready for my raw talent yet.”  My first date with destiny may have been tainted with an unrequited aroma, but there were plenty of fish still left to fry…

Next up was Groveland Gallery behind the Walker Art Museum.  The art as well as the setting couldn’t have contrasted more from my experience at Flanders.  From the art on the wall to a catalogue of represented artists displayed for perusal, I knew my brightly colored neo-picassoesqueish paintings would not blend into their repertoire of landscapes and classically based works (without the use of a crowbar).  Again, my bad for having done zilch by way of research. What I thought would be a simple date with destiny was turning into a day of speed dating with galleries I had nothing in common with.

After a short confidence regroup (and rebuild) at Bob’s Java Hut, I was en route to my next two galleries, Circa and Euro Gallery, which were conveniently located next door to each other near Loring Park.

Looking back at it now, I can just imagine the gallery directors’ delight in seeing a disheveled 20 year-old kid getting out of his beetle holding a stack of photos.  There was a phrase in the Basquiat movie about ‘discovering the next Van Gogh’ that could have worked really well in this scenario… except it didn’t.

Upon entering my first destination, I was greeted by the owner of Euro Gallery, as well as the owner of Circa.  They were both at the front counter chatting.  Unwavering in my mental focus of “this date will succeed even if I have to kidnap someone” I strode toward them and introduced myself.

Both directors were welcoming.  They politely accepted the offer to look at my “portfolio.”  I proceeded to lay out my 30 to 40 poorly lit polaroids across the counter.  As their eyes sifted over the images, one asked to see my artist statement (my what?) and exhibition history. “Uh, I forgot them?”  Slick.  “Did you shoot these leaning against your car out there?”  “Um, yep.” Double slick.  Needless to say, my day of gallery speed dating ended with only one type of response:
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
…with not even one, “I’ll call ya.”

Even though my day turned out to be a date with disappointment, everyone I met was extremely nice and encouraging without a hint of condescension- something which stuck with me years later as I eventually became friends with each of those gallery directors. 

It wouldn’t be until a few years later that I met my real destiny and she would say yes.  She took the form of a small nondescript upstart gallery in the middle of the industrial corridor on East Hennepin.  Her name was Rogue Buddha.  It was with her that I finally had my first solo exhibition in a gallery…

Cheers!