The Rules in The Mixed Media Art Community

Riffing on another idea prompted by Deirdra’s post: What are The Rules? As I said last time, I have no idea about the back story here—if I did, I wouldn’t be posting about it, because then it would be me inserting my opinion about something that’s none of my business. As it is, being ignorant of the details, as usual, I can talk about the ideas prompted by the topic itself. Which is: The Rules.

I know there are rules—there are rules for everything. Some rules are great:  rules about commas, for example, help make what you write easily understandable by your reader. You know, the whole “eats, shoots, and leaves” thing. Rules for driving are good also. We love those rules, never mind that approximately 99.9% of the US Driving Population has no clue what “Yield” actually means. They seem to believe that it is a synonym for “slow down just a tad, then speed up reallyreallyreally fast so you can get there first.”

So what are the Rules for the Mixed Media Community? Who knows? It doesn’t matter, because, in practice, you need only one set of rules, and they apply equally to International Finance and dating and attending an art retreat and being part of any community, anywhere:

1. Play nicely. Show up with a good attitude, ready to contribute and learn and find out new stuff. Think about what you have to offer, and think about what you can learn from people who are willing to share what they know. Don’t come in with a chip on your shoulder or some agenda, like proving how groovy you are or how cool and worldly and jaded. Put on your happy face and try to make others feel at ease. Be encouraging, be honest, be open. If this is too tough for you—if you’re by nature an introverted, bitter, suspicious, angry person, then perhaps it’s best if you stay at home.

2. No hitting. Or biting. Don’t do nasty things to others. Don’t sabotage their work, and don’t spread gossip or rumors or bad news. Don’t be the one who’s sitting at home plotting how to get back at the teacher who didn’t give you enough attention in her workshop or the woman sitting next to you who used up all your red yarn. Don’t try to scoop someone by claiming you had the idea first or by going behind their back to suggest you’d be the better person for the gallery show because, well, really, she’s been having a lot of personal drama, and who can be sure she’ll be able to meet the deadline. You know what I’m talking about here.

3. Don’t be greedy. If you’re thinking about money, money, money all the time, and it’s always about marketing and pushing your work and getting people to give you money for your stuff or your time or your techniques, then you don’t really want to be part of a community; you want to have customers. While people in a community may oftentimes support each other financially, that is not their primary purpose. If you’re trying to insinuate yourself into a group with the main purpose of finding ways to get them to pay you for stuff, you’re lying, aren’t you? You don’t want to be part of a group; you want to build a customer base. If it’s all about money for you, it’s never going to be about community.

4. Don’t take stuff that doesn’t belong to you. If artist A gets an article in a magazine about her Braided Tchotchkes, and if everyone is immediately blogging about Braided Tchotchkes and talking about A’s Braided Tchotchke Workshop, and her Etsy shop, once full of Braided Tchotchkes, is suddenly sold out, don’t you DARE suddenly go, “You know, I’ve always had a fondness for Braided Tchotchkes. In fact, I first made Braided Tchotchkes at my great-grandmother’s knee when I was nothing but a wee lass. By golly, I have as much right to make Braided Tchotchkes as A does!”  and then you suddenly start cranking out Braided Tchotchkes for your own brand-new (but you really intended to open one YEARS ago; you just never had the time) Etsy shop. You know it:  every how-to piece begins with “I’ve loved bird images my whole life. . .” or “I was using Rusted Metal Things in my art in kindergarten. . .” or whatever other disclaimer the artist thinks will cement their right to jump on the Braided Tchotchke band wagon. This is not about art. This is about taking someone else’s idea—their successful idea, because, really:  if you come up with something that totally sucks the big winkie, you don’t much have to worry about anyone else stealing the idea and running off with it, do you?—and trying to cash in on it. It’s about money, it’s about laziness, it’s about greed. You can make up all the excuses you want and try to justify it any way you want, but you know what it is.

5. Share. This is the flip side. If you’re Artist A, and you make a small fortune on Braided Tchotchkes, and everyone is clamoring to learn to make them, teach a workshop. Go ahead:  tell them how. Show them samples and give them the handouts and teach them how to do what you do. Why? Because if you’re making art, if you’re an artist, by the time your Braided Tchotchkes become internationally famous, you’re hot on fire with passion for Waxed Potsherds.  You live Waxed Potsherds and dream Waxed Potsherds, and making them is all you want to do. You are so over Braided Tchotchkes [and, honeys, imagine how tired I am of typing “Braided Tchotchkes”] that you keep making them only because people are still mad to death in love with them and you can’t bear to disappoint them. In fact, you’re ready to sell the rights to some company, which will pay you well enough so you won’t starve—and there is nothing wrong with making money with your art--just so you can move on to Waxed Potsherds. Because Real Artists are like that: they don’t have The One Big Idea that they ride for a lifetime. Hell, no. They have an idea and then another one and then three more and then half a dozen and then one that GRABS them, and the question is when to find the time to chase them all down and play with them, not how to hide them away and keep them all secret. We all know artists who won’t share:  the ones who have Secret Steps or Mystery Ingredients. The ones who say, “You’ll have to take my class to find that out” when all you asked them was what kind of glue stick they like best. Sure, you don’t give away the store when you’re trying to make a living by teaching workshops, but if someone asks you what kind of wax you’re using, good grief:  you TELL them. If you’re doing fabulous stuff, they’ll want to take your class anyway. Chances are they’re paying for the class just to hang around you and watch how you work, not to glean the Secrets of Waxed Potsherds. I feel really strongly about this  because  I couldn’t do the job I do—writing about artists and their work—if artists didn’t share. If they didn’t freely tell about their work and show it and show how it’s done and share their tips and techniques and shortcuts, I’d be out of a job. Everything I write relies on the willingness of artists to share what they do. Do they all share? No. But I guarantee this:  the ones who keep it all to themselves, who refuse to share and expect to be paid for every single little tidbit they toss out to the waiting masses? You don’t hear much from them except in very, very rarefied arenas. The ones who do share? They’re the ones posting how-to’s on their blogs and providing videos and giving instructions. Or the ones who, when you contact them to ask a question, do their best to find the time to answer it. Think Judy Wise, who’s a very successful teacher, indeed. She  posts tons of how-to stuff and shows step-by-step stuff (remember her paper bag journal how-to?) and shares her journal online. How can she share so much and still work? If you notice, by the time everyone else is excited about whatever it is Judy is doing, she’s already been captured and captivated by Something Brand New. She’s not afraid you’re going to steal her One Big Idea and run away with it; she’s too busy trying to find time for all the million things she can’t wait to try. That’s what art is about.

And those, my sweets, are The Rules.

Go. Play well with others.