10-09-2011, 03:23 PM
My sister is a painter. When she was at College, she would (in between riding her bike across massive and massively expensive, paints in the garden, prior to setting light to the same) sneer rather at painters whose work she deemed .chocolate-boxy. Life being the ironic bitch it is, she has found, (and I should say she paints beautifully) that people began to like, and buy, pictures of her red-haired daughter, Rosie, among the poppies at my later mother's house. For a while , she was trapped, as that was all her agent, representing Joe Public, wanted; one guy phoned from California offering $10,000 for a painting she had alrady agreed to sell for much less, having seen it on the cover of 'Country Life'.
Of course, she has moved on, but will still have to pkeep a weather-eye to the market -- what will sell, and what will not. Sometimes, the sea and the sky where she lives, satisfy both: sometimes Jou Public wants to see little boys in three-quarter length thousers, playing by the sea. A tad chocolate-boxy, perhaps.
The moral of all this is: how much could any of us, hand on heart, say was ready for market --any market? If there is no market, perhaps we more and more satisfy ourselves, and by so doing , make what we write even less marketable?
Ho
Of course, she has moved on, but will still have to pkeep a weather-eye to the market -- what will sell, and what will not. Sometimes, the sea and the sky where she lives, satisfy both: sometimes Jou Public wants to see little boys in three-quarter length thousers, playing by the sea. A tad chocolate-boxy, perhaps.
The moral of all this is: how much could any of us, hand on heart, say was ready for market --any market? If there is no market, perhaps we more and more satisfy ourselves, and by so doing , make what we write even less marketable?
Ho