Anticipation of, or benighted attempt to make, what supposedly will sell - based on a dying-star view of what HAS sold – possesses all the utility of a dog chasing its own tail. To do so is also THE definition of derivative. However, to pretend that one is some sort of 'Vestal Virgin' when it comes to the inarguably mammon(ish) business of the art market would be to not only dress one's inner-life-mutton as publicly-puritanical lamb, but also to condemn oneself to eternal-day-job-limbo.
Constructing some sort of conceptualized in-studio audience-simulacra (audience stand-in) and then to choreograph an Apache-dance-style pas de deux between that simulacra, and one's integral 'aesthetic' bottom-line, would be a reasonably practical idea. As would some sort of unabashed, and unapologetic, seduction of: eye, patron, collector, dealer, decider, curator. Artists we now think of as greats ( think Caravaggio, Gentileschi, Vermeer, ) were great seducers.
One foot in the persuasive familiar of historically verified cultural seduction and one canny foot, strategically edging toward the novel (and beyond) would be a sound mix of calculated avariciousness and creative integrity.
We monkeys like novelty but we prefer our novelty in the comfort of familiar, socially ratified, surrounds.