Yesterday I led six adult students through the horrific intersection of art and business, also known as the Art & Business class. Art and business is like oil and water to artists. (What is it about artists that makes us want to hurl at the thought of mixing art and money?)
Seven people were registered for the class. The table arrangement accommodated eight in a horseshoe shape. My homemade comb-bound workbooks were placed in front of each chair. Pens were scattered around. Table tents of white card stock were folded at each seat, waiting for students to print their names.I never know who will sign up for six hours of this rare form of hell. As usual, the group of so-called artists was a mixed bag. The first to arrive was an older gentleman, maybe a few years older than me (I just turned 63), with wispy white hair and glasses. The next to arrive was a younger woman with olive skin and lovely black-framed glasses. I greeted them both.
In the ensuing silence, they perused their workbooks while I stared out the window, starting to sweat as the clock ticked toward the start time. At three minutes to ten, I poked my head out the door and saw two young women sitting on a bench across the hall. They ignored me. At ten o'clock exactly, they strolled into the classroom and sat next to one another at the table nearest the door, chattering in a foreign language.
A minute after ten, I moved to my first PowerPoint slide and began my introduction. About ten sentences later, the door opened and a handsome bearded man in a knit cap entered, followed by a blonde woman wearing some sort of poncho-like garment. They took seats opposite the two young ladies. The tables were almost full. I welcomed the newcomers and finished up my introduction.
“Now it's your turn to talk,” I said. “Please introduce yourself and tell us what kind of art you make. And then please tell me what you hope to learn in this class today, so I can write it on the board.” I parked myself at the whiteboard, blue pen poised.
The woman in the poncho introduced herself as Jackie. “I'm not an artist,” she said. She motioned with her head toward the young man next to her. “I'm here to learn how to support Miller.” She efficiently opened her laptop and got ready to take notes. “I want to learn more about marketing.” I wrote marketing on the whiteboard.
I looked at Miller, who sort of folded in on himself, covering his face with his hand. “I hate anything to do with business,” he groaned dramatically. “That's why I brought my partner.”
“What kind of art do you make?” I asked politely.
“I paint. With oils. On paper. It's archival paper from France. It comes in rolls. It's perfectly legit, you can look it up. You know what I mean?” He rubbed his face with his hand and squirmed in his chair. I thought, what is up with this guy.
“What do you hope to get from this class today?” I asked.
He groaned and bent over like he was going to be sick. “I don't know!” he moaned. “How to make people buy my stuff?” I wrote how to make people buy my stuff on the board. For veracity, I like to use the students' actual words whenever I do the needs assessment.
Next up was the older guy, Dan. He sat up straight and introduced himself. “I'm retired. I like to draw figures. I try to get the most emotion into the fewest lines.”
“What do you hope to get from today's class?”
“Some tips on marketing, I guess,” he replied. “I'm not sure.” I wrote tips on marketing on the whiteboard.
Next to him sat the woman with the black glasses. “My name is Betty. I have my own studio,” she said nervously. “I used to teach art to children but I stopped doing that a couple years ago. Now I want to make signs. I need to make some money. I'm hoping to . . . I don't know what to focus on. I've got so many ideas, I don't know what to do.”
“I can relate to that,” I reassured her. “What do you hope to learn today?”
“I'm not sure, I don't know what I need. Help with marketing, I guess. I don't know.” I wrote marketing on the board.
I looked at the young woman to Betty's right and smiled encouragingly, noting her curly brown hair, perfect eyebrows, and flawless makeup. She smiled back.
“My name is Tina,” she said with an accent I couldn't place. “I am a cosmetic tattoist.”
“Tattoo artist?” I said. I pictured body tattoos.
“Cosmetic tattoos?” Dan clarified. “Like when people need . . . ?”
“Eyebrows,” Tina said.
“What would you like to get from this class today, Tina?” I asked.
“I'm not sure, marketing, maybe?”
The last person in the class was a young woman with long brown hair and glasses.
“I'm not an artist,” she said. “My son is in high school. He likes to draw.”
“So, you are here to get some information for your son?”
She nodded. “He wants to go to an art school in California, I don't know the name, very expensive. I want to help him make a good choice.”
On the whiteboard I wrote help loved one make a good choice.
And away we went. When I've recuperated, I'll tell you more.
