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.
