Reality TV and the Arts

A few years back I got a letter from one of those popular cable stations (Bravo?). The letter stated they wanted to run a reality program about visual artists and would I be interested in participating. If so, please fill out the following questionnaire. I’m not sure how they found me. My instincts told me the cable station purchased the Chicago Art Institute’s data base. One primary marketing goal I have is to be listed in as many data bases as possible. How can opportunity knock if I don’t stand behind as many doors as I can find.

The letter itself was only one page long. The questionnaire ran for fifteen pages. But, I am always happy to fill out questionnaires that require one answer only. As I skimmed over the pages I asked myself, well…how bad can it be?

Invasive! That’s how bad it could be. I had two thoughts: first, they asked questions which my own mother wouldn’t dare to ask, and I would never answer; and secondly, if the cable station wished to understand artists and the art world, then good luck getting me to tell you the truth about that stuff.

Worse yet, each question required an essay answer! What? Did they want artists to do their job for them? Is everyone in reality television exposed to this type of psychological profiling?

Today, I don’t remember one question and am fairly certain I didn’t save the letter; or, if I did save the letter, it is somewhere “safe.” That is, never to be found again, like much in my filing system.

But I did remember my own academic experiences. I knew there was no way a group of artists in one room would get along—forget compatible. Believe me when I say Donald Trump is an innocent when it comes to ambition and back stabbing. The program Survivor couldn’t hold a candle. Picture a room of musicians, each following their own mental drummer arguing who is the best performer, the best composer. They wouldn’t get their own work done. Or—remember the ambition and back stabbing in the movie “Black Swan.” The idea of presenting a reality program with artists as the protagonists is similar to the play Hamlet—everyone is dead at the end. Hmmm….so was the swan.

The participants in Donald Trump’s program and Survivor are fighting for a common goal; be it a job or money. For a visual artist to admit “I’m doing this strictly for the money,” is to be black-balled in the art world. Your art will never be taken seriously. (My denial to make a lot of money is also part of my hypocrisy.)

I wonder what percentage of artists responded to that mailing? What were the cable station’s parameters. Who were the artists?

In the years since I got that letter I keep looking for the completed program. Why hasn’t it been aired? Nothing. Nada. Did I miss it? Instinct tells me, the cable station was disappointed in the number of respondents. If so, I can only say—good for us.

If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not working hard enough.
Ida Kotyuk©
http://www.portraits-oils.com/

The Christmas Portrait

Standing at the window, I watched the young couple come up the walk. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Are they newly weds? Why do I think they’re married? What could a young couple want from a portrait painter when their money should be tied up in their firsts: their first home, their first car, their first child. Couples that young should be paying off their wedding or honeymoon. What is more important—than their married firsts?

I opened my door to them and stepped back as we introduced ourselves. I asked what kind of portrait were they interested in and how could I help them.

It was the young wife who wanted the portrait. She reached into her purse to pull out a letter-sized envelope with five, faded and worn, small photographs of a laughing teenage boy. I spread them out on my drawing board.

“I would like an oil portrait,” she said.

She explained he was her brother and she wanted the oil portrait as a Christmas gift for her parents.

My clients know their own mind and what it is they want from me. But, yet, I had to ask, “You don’t think your mother and father would like a portrait of you and your husband for Christmas?”

“No. I definitely want one of him.”

“May I ask why.”

“Well. He died last summer and I want to give them something this Christmas.”

“He died. How old was he?”

“He was sixteen-years-old.”

Picturing the need for closure on a long-suffering illness I thought, perhaps, her parents weren’t ready for the next step.

“How did he die?”

“He was shot by his best friend.”

“Shot! What happened?” I asked, thinking what could a sixteen-year-old boy be doing that would get him killed.

“He and his buddy were washing his car when my brother aimed the water hose at him. As a joke his buddy pulled a gun from his car and waved it around as a threat. The gun accidentally went off and shot my brother in the stomach.”

“Oh. Hell.”

We stood shaking our heads in silent communion at life’s stupidities. Her husband never said a word, this was his wife’s story.

Looking down at my drawing board, I spread out her few photographs and asked, “Is any particular one your favorite?”

From the smiling five photographs she said, “Well, we sort of like this one,” and pointed to a young face tilted back with laughter.

“Excellent,” I said, asking for my deposit.

Without a single hesitation or question her husband reached into his back pocket to pull out his check book and opened it to write the specified amount.

A little surprised because he didn’t ask about size or the other myriad questions, I stepped back, and said “You’ve talked to other artists.”

“Yes. You’re our fourth.”

“What was wrong with them?” I asked.

“They said not enough information.”

“Not enough information! He’s a sixteen-year-old boy. I don’t need to know anything else,” I said, gathering up the photographs.

As they walked back to their car I became angry at those other artists who didn’t have enough information. That they didn’t understand she didn’t ask for an oil portrait to bring her brother back to life. But rather, it was the gift from a daughter to her mother and father. That, as an alternative, this Christmas they would talk about the good times.

If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not working hard enough.

Ida Kotyuk©

www.portraits-oils.com