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Starts Tomorrow
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Learning the Business of Art
Colorado Springs, 1971
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In 1971, my pregnant wife and I moved to Colorado Springs nearly broke. I had been a one-man operation for a decade, busting my hump sculpting, casting and selling my sculptures door to door. So when we arrived in Colorado, I thought I knew the business.
Turns out, nobody was interested. I went to store after store, and nothing, not a single bite. Panic set in. I had never worried about money before. I always knew how to take care of myself. I could just tramp from place to place, country to country without a thought about where my next meal would come from. But all of that changed. Now I had a wife and a baby on the way. What did I know about caring for a family? Suddenly I had all these responsibilities, and I couldn't make a single sale.
In that early panic, I made a real rookie mistake. I lowered my prices. Ridiculously low. Of course, by undercutting my price, I devalued my work. I made it look cheap, offering it at cost without putting any value on my own artistic point of view or craftsmanship.
And it is craftsmanship. Some people think because I choose to reproduce my sculptures, that somehow means I don't value them. The truth is, I pour my soul into my guys - my winos, my cowboys, my soldiers. When I made one-of-a-kind sculptures back in Dallas, it was easy to convince myself they were good. Once they were sold, I let myself forget their thousands of flaws. I was sloppy back then, back when I didn't have to look my work in the face every single day. But once I began reproducing each piece, I became more invested. I worked harder on each detail because I had to live with the results. I would have to sell that piece again and again. So perfection was no longer a luxury, it was a requirement.
I take the honor of my work very seriously. I have an authentic obligation to my customer to make sure that every reproduction is as good, if not better, than my original. The 1st one, the 30th one, the 347th one - they are all equally precious. Handcrafted at every step along the way. That's the key.
Every sculpture begins the same way. After weeks, even months or years of thinking it through, doing research, reading historical references, I set a piece of clay or sculptor's wax in front of me. My hands feel their way into it, feeling for the life that I know is there. Limbs start to emerge, the vaguest outline of a human form. It's not about props or guns or saddles. At its core, it's about finding the human spark and pulling it out.
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During the initial process, I invent wonderful backstories for each one of my guys. I'll cluck my tongue, whisper and make all kinds of childish sounds. From a small lump in my hands, a face emerges - a furrowed brow or the upturn of a lip. I'll hear his voice telling me who he is. Sometimes the process takes a few weeks. Sometimes it can take months, even years, for the character to emerge. But as soon as the sculpture is complete, the voice vanishes. I am left in silence. That's how I know he is done.
To this day, I still delight in this moment - to feel the high of getting it right, of knowing that I gave it my everything with no regrets. How many moments like that does a man get? I've had hundreds. Each and every one has been thrilling. My characters surround me - in my Production Studio, in my Gallery and in my home. A few of them still knock me out each time I look at them:
Saddle Tramp
,
Back to the Station
,
Original Bench
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Pathfinder
. These guys make me feel like my life has meant something.
Most artists thrill in the creation of their work and then struggle in the sale. When I first got to Colorado Springs, I was no different. I went all over the region - from Monument to Manitou Springs and every shop along the way. I wasn't picky, just hungry. 10, 20 people said no, but I only needed one to say yes. Finally, after weeks and weeks, I made a sale, a single order from a shop owner who probably just took pity on me. But, oh, what a relief! Eventually I made another sale, then another. Then a bank picked us up. They were doing one of those promotions: Open a checking account and get a free sculpture. That got my name out there, got people seeing my work, then looking for more.
It was really rough going there for a while. Then slowly but surely, the whole thing began to grow.
I learned quite a lot there in the beginning. I learned that there is no glory in being a starving artist. In fact, I see it now as an artist's obligation to know their business, to own it and develop a passion for it - for the business of what they do. It can be a cop-out, for an artist to proclaim they don't have a head for business. It is my job as an artist to be good at every step - the creation, the publication, and the business. For me, that meant learning the hard way. But learning, nonetheless.
Five decades later, and I am still learning new things every single day.
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