Planet of the Arts Vol. 5 no. 1 Fall 1989 HEE HCG as Vancouvs'r SuWimer. | still suspect the blame lies on the whirlwind Foundation night of last year, with all the running, flailing, shrieking, ululating and palpitating it provoked that left the first year students completely drained of life energies. For several weeks afterward, months even; we would collect in the empty cafeteria, hollow of eye, of tallow complexion, like zombis, still trying to convince our- selves school was in session. We would swarm in concentric circles about a table three or four layers thick; some- times if one was stranded in an outer orbit the table couldn't even be seen, not that it mattered. We would simply sit and talk in low, morose voices about upcoming deadlines, stare at points in space, allowing our hands to paint, photograph, saw, cut, print, hammer, or whatever else they pleased in the air. Anything to avoid admitting the season was over and we had to go find jobs in the real world. 10° = | spent some time near the Monashees where some friends of mine have recently moved. The nearest town is 100 km away, but after a decade in Banff ( a cathedral of consumerism ) they were going mad. the choice was articipate or leave. Their land is eautiful, a few hundred acres in a river valley surrounded by cedar and birch. They have a garden, a sauna, and are in the process of building a log cabin. Ideally they'd never leave their home- stead. However, they also own a truck, a chainsaw, and cook with propane. The bears eat most of the garden. Even if they wanted to shoot the bears they would still need to buy the bullets. For a few months of eash year my friends will have to go outside of their dreams and acknowledge the Cold Cash god. |, too, must make the occasional obeiance before this deity. School makes it easier, a haven with student loans, scholarships and mega-bucks worth of equipment for free. | have the freedom to pursue my art without worrying about it supplying the financial means for the next project. The big nasty is that | graduate in two years at which time !’ll be faced with the pleas- ures of loan payments and other as- sorted goodies. So if I’m going to ursue what I’ve been doing here, | fae to find a way to make my art fi- nancially self supporting. | hope to do this without resorting to painting carica- tures of mall denizens on mugs. But that is just a hope because most of the people who graduate from this college are not going to pay their rent through their art. Let’s suppose you are one of the lucky few and do go on a litle. You may work for another established artist in tne time honoured slavery known as apprenticing. You could freelance doing odd bits for a restaurant that aes a giant parrot repaired. You may find find yourself adored in the cosmos of commercial galleries. Aliens might kidnap you and take you to the stars to perform in the Intergalactic Elvis/ Orbison Revival Show. Whatever. in any of these situations, let the artist beware. Your employer/client may talk good pay, flexible hours, creative freedom, perks and/or petero ages. In your trusting naivety a hand- shake will do. You've just set yourself up to be painfully shafted. Firstly, your definition of a reasonable amount may differ from an employer who last worked for wages whieh the minimum was $2.10 an hour. Make sure you’ve both agreed to the same deal. Get it in writing | Does your end of the deal involve supplying the materials ? If so, make sure that your costs don’t wipe out our profit. Get money upfront as it can e a long and poverty stricken proce- dure attempting to do so after the fact. If your work hours are described as flexible, don’t hesitate to ask in which way. This is particularly important in a salaried job where payment of $1200.00 a month can translate into $3.00 an hour. If you are working in another artist's studio find out what your privileges are; Can you use the equip- ment ? How offen ? Are you expected to pay utilities ? Again, get it in writing. If you are offered a bonus for finishing a job ahead of time, get it in print with a signature. When you're dealing with a gallery always get a signed contract. A few _ to watch out for : Shipping and packing costs and who pays them, whether or not the gallery has insurance against theft, damage, etc. If so, does it have a deductible and how much is it? Will the gallery be advertising and put ting on an opening ? Are you expected to pay for those costs ? at pecen- tage of the selling price do you get ? In Canada, most galleries run around 60/ AO in the artist's favour. In the States, odds favour the galleries with a few actually sucking in as much as 65% of the. price. Of course, prices are much higher in the U.S. of A. If you set a price for your work, make sure the gallery doesn’t raise or lower it. Some gallery owners will raise their profit margin by boosting the price of a piece and not giving the artist any more money. Conversely, Putting the price down has an adverse effect on the market value of the work. Your art is not yesterday's sofa ! Unless you want it to be, of course. ALWAYS be clear on exactly what you are expected to do, how much it will cost, how much time is involved and GET IT IN WRITING ! Wy But then, Vancouver isn’t the real world. A land where people hold sincere political protests at windmills (modern day Quixotes wearing sand- wich board armour, wielding pointed protest signs) against their inflatable florist king, where people are willing to pay more for a home than is asked of them, where it seems automobile drivers grow more reckless the higher the collision rates loom in order to garner their fair share, where the ulti- mate crime is to not be laid back, this is not the real world. It’s a R.E. Raspe story, a Lewis Carrol poem, a Far Side cartoon. So perhaps what happened to me will not seem so outlandish. | was one of the last zombis to shrug off the three quarter inch indus- trial veil of delusion. My first summer job was one for which | was recom- mended by a man who, only just a few years earlier, had his head crushed in by a carjack in a mugging. | was to rebuild chairs for the Vancouver Trade And Confusion Centre, an embarrass- ing relic stapled together by the prov- ince for Expo. The architectural com- mission for the canvass and concrete leviathan was given to no less than five contractors with the instruction to design the place with an oceanliner theme. The resulting plans were then compiled, cut up and allowed to fall together in an inspired, but ultimately _ pointless display of dadaesque creativ- ity. In any case, my task was to fix chairs. Seven thousand of them, assisted two highly experienced, dedicated chimpanzees. My boss was a kind chap who expressed with zeal- ous frequency and poetic eloquence his sorrow for having hired me. “Alan, my friend, do you recall that strange tale of Rumplestiltskin ? The wicked, stone hearted troll who turned straw to gold in a spin ? Behind those bulging, blistered doors lurk seven thousand bundles of twisted, tortured steel, raked vinyl, and gnarled, dis- turbed screws. Spin me furniture, Alan, spin me gold ! It sounds impossible | know, | feel for you, | wish | could help. But I’m your Boss now, there is nothing either of us can do to change that.” “You could fire me.” “Sorry laddie, you haven't done anything to justify that.” “| could refuse to fix the chairs, | could beat the tar out of you with this Carjack....” “No, no brother-of-my-next-life, | know trying to help and | am touched. Perhaps you could even bludgeon me a little, to alleviate the guilt some, but this situation can’t be helped. Godspeed mon petite chaussette, | only wish | were young enough to go in there with you.” “Bryan ? Bryan, you’re only twenty- seven, Bryan, don’t bolt both those do-” Sometime later, shortly after a recuperative stint monitoring the Japanese Consulate’s Hundredth Anniversary Exhibit in the Charles H. Scott gallery, my family, for nothing better to do, moved. The movers we hired were thoroughly professional save perhaps for their rehearsed lack of concern towards our property. But before cramming our things into their deceptively small truck they measured the lengths , widths, heighths, and other dimensions of our couches to the AASAAA recommended).Press dough into oiled pan.Generously slather pizza sauce onto dough.Layer fruit last decimal, the relative densities of the television, channelled and recorded the past lives of each lamp; the movers believed in the mathematics of moving like a religion. The head mover was a massive, barrel chested, belly baring, coarse haired, blunt featured fellow who moved and spoke like a truly dis- contented physicist. He seemed embit- tered towards the Universe, as if it had not lived up to his figures. He was the sort of man who could deliberately and repeatedly root through a can of pork and beans for the piece of pork. When asked how he intended to wedge our dining room table under, without disturbing, a carjack on the: truck floor, he explained “I’ve got a hundred fifty three 1.Q., so don’t fuck with me !” indenting my lungs with his hamhock pinkie as he did so. | was glad to have lost the breath with which to ask my next, apparently illogical question of why. The answer would have been fatal. | just let him continue calculating the molar mass of the microwave oven on his fingers and stuff the appliance into a space the size of an ant’s bellybutton. As | now re- member the scene, those were the same words with which he greeted me as well... _ While overseeing the hulks shove the last of our wallunits between a coffee table and a hydrogen particle, | happened to notice the truck’s glove --compartment was ajar. Something was glistening fervently inside; Or some things. “What's this in the glove compart- ment then ?” | asked, only slightly louder than the rumbling hum of fission from deep within the truck’s vaults. “What ?” was the muffled reply. Staring into the concrete lined compart- ment | discovered it was in fact a tesseract, that is, a space larger on the inside than out. Several hundred thousand times larger in this particular instance, and filled to the arched ceiling with memorabilia tableware, Royal Dalton figurines, 8x10 glossies, bumperstickers and lava lamps, all bearing the machine painted, paste| - coloured image of Jean-Paul Il. One of the movers ( it was difficult to tell the two apart as the second movers |.Q. was a close hundred fifty two ) flung me away from the truck into a telephone pole and, brandishing a carjack, asked what the deuce | was up to. “Your glove compartment’s filled with Papal souvenirs !” | sweated aloud, more than Vancouver's economy can afford ! The entire population will go stony broke trying to keep up with the selection you've got in there !” “They're not mine !” sputtered the slightly less brilliant mover, “I’m just holding them for a friend !” “You're Papal smugglers aren’t you ?” | hissed. The two men began to look increasingly nervous. Their t-shirts were dissolving in greasy sweat. “You talk of mathematics, applied fractals, quantum mechanics, subspace inver- sion, yet you supply millions of Vatican kitch junkies across Canada, Don’t you ? Why...” | squinted my eyes and the movers winced, “I'll bet you aren’t even atheists !” Planet of the Arts Vol. 5 no. 1 Fall 1989 ON Gt Vancouvar Su¥imer. | still suspect the blame lies on the whirlwind Foundation night of last year, with all the running, laling, shrieking, tlulating and palpitating it left the first year students completely drained of lite energies. For several weeks afterward, months even, we would collect in the empy cafeteria, hollow of eye, of tallow complexion, like zombis, stil trying to convince our- selves school was in session. We would swarm in concentric circles about a table three or four layers thick; some- times if one was stranded in an outer orbit the table couldn't even be seen, ‘ot that it mattered. We would simply sit and talk in low, morose voices about upcoming deadlines, stare at points in space, allowing our hands to paint, photograph, saw, cut, print, hammer, or whatever else they pleased in the al ‘Anything to avoid admitting the season ‘was over and we had to go find jobs in the real world I spent some time near the Monashees where some friends of mi have recently moved. The nearest town is 100 km away, but afer a decade in Banff ( a cathedral of consumerism ) they were going mad. the cho crfcipate or leave. Their lan Peau i, a few hundred acres in a river valley surrounded by cedar and birch. Thay have a garden, sane, end are in the process of building « log cabin. Ideally they'd never leave their home- stead. However, they also own a truck, a chainsaw, and cook with propane. The bears eat most of the garden. Even if hey wanted fo shoot the bears hey Be eel a es months of each year my friends wi have fo go ouside of their crooms and ‘acknowledge the Cold Cash god. |, too, must make the occasional obeiance before this deity. School makes it easier, haven with student loans, scholarships and mega-bucks worth of equipment for ree. have the freedom to pursue my art without worrying about it supplying the financial means for the nex! project. The big nasty is that | graduate in two years at which time I'll be faced with the pleas- ures of loan payments and other as- 9g So if I'm going to wursue what I've been doing here, | 18 fo find a way to make my art fe nancially self supporting. | hope to do this without resorting to painting carica- tures of mall denizens on mugs. But that is just a hope because most of the people who graduate from this college Gre not going to pay their ent through their art. lot’s suppose you are one of he lucky few and do go on a litle. You may work for another established artist 1e fime honoured slavery known as pprenticin You could freelance ‘odd its for a restaurant that perform in the Intergalactic Eivis/ ‘Orbison Revival Show. Whatever. in any of these sitvations, lt the artist beware. Your employer/client may tak good pay, fenible hours, creative freedom, perks and/or percent tages. In your tuting naively @ hand- shake will do. You've just set yourself tp to be painfully shafted. Fialy, your definition ofa reasonable amount may differ from an employer who last worked for wages Asbet the minimum ‘was $2.10 an hour. Make sure you've both agreed tothe same deal. Cet it in wring | Does your end of tho deol involve supplying the materials @ If so, make sure that your costs don’ wipe out four profit. Get money upfront as it ean 3° a fong and poverty stricken proce: dure afempiing 10 do so ater fhe foc. if your work hours are described os Hie doo akin wich way. This is patevlary important in a salaried [ob where payment of $1200.00 a month can translate into $3.00 an hour. IF you are working in another arts’ studi find out what your privileges are; Can you use the equi ment i How often @ Are you expecte fo pay uilities # Again, gettin wring. Nellans deed tecrea ie hee Job cheod of me, gettin print wih @ Signature. ‘When you're dealing with a gollery chvrcys got tira cries tor things to watch out for: Shipping and Barking cos ond who pas then, ‘whether or not the gallery has insurance geins theft, damage, ek. liso, does have a deductible and how much i 12 Wil the gallery be advertising and put fing on an opening # Are you expected to pay for those costs? What pocer- tage of the selling price do you get ? In Canada, most galleries run Ground 60/7 din ho artist's favour. In he States, ‘odds favour the galleries with afew ‘actually sucking in as much as 65% of price. Of course, prices are much igher in the U.S. of A. If you set a price for your work, make sre he Gallery doesnt ralse or lower it, Some gallery owners will rase thelr profit margin by boosting the price of piece cndinet ging tetany mor money. Conversely, Pung the price down has an adverse eect onthe market value of the work. Your art is not yesterday's sofa | Unless you want it to be, of course. 'ALWAYS be clear on exactly what you are expected to do, how much it will cost, how much time is involved and GET IT IN WRITING | nw But then, Vancouver isnt the real world. A land where people hold sincere political protests at windmills (modem day Quixotes wearing sand- wich board armour, wielding pointed protest signs) against their inflatable florist king, where people are willing to pay more for a home than is asked of them, where it seems automobile drivers grow more reckless the higher the collision rates loom in order to gamer their fair share, where the ulti- ‘mate crime is to not be laid back, ths is not the real world. i's a/R.E. Raspe story, a Lewis Carrol poem, a Far Side cartoon. So perhaps what happened to me will not seem so outlandish. | was one of the last zombis to shrug off the three quarter inch indus- {ral veil of delusion. My first summer job was one for which | was recom- mended by a man who, only ust a few years earlier, had his head crushed in by a carjack in a mugging. | was to rebuild chairs for the Vancouver Trade ‘And Confusion Gentre, an embarrass ing relic stapled together by the prov- ince for Expo. The architectural com- mission for the canvass and concrete leviathan was given to no less than five ‘contractors with the instruction to design the place with an oceantiner theme. The resulting plans were then ‘compiled, cut up and allowed to fal together in an inspired, but utimately pointless display of dadaesque creativ- iy. In any case, my task was to fix cchairs. Seven thousand of them, assisted two highly experienced, dedicated chimpanzees. My boss was a kind chap who expressed with zeal ‘ous frequency and poetic eloquence his. sorrow for having hired me. "alan, my fiend, do you recall that strange tale of Rumplestitskin ? The wicked, stone hearted troll who turned straw to gold in a spin ? Behind those bulging, blstered doors lurk seven thousand bundles of twisted, tortured steel, raked vinyl, and gnarled, dis- turbed sorews. Spin me furniture, Alan, spin me gold! it sounds impossible | know, | feel for you, | wish | could help. But 'm your Boss now, there is nothing either of us can do to change that.” “You could fire me.” “Sorry laddie, you haven't done anything to justify that.” “i could refuse to fix the chairs, | ‘could beat the tar out of you with this crack..." “No, no brother-of-my-next-ife, know trying to help and | am touched. Perhaps you could even bludgeon me a litle, to alleviate the guit some, but this situation can't be helped. Godspeed mon petite chaussette, | only wish | were young enough to go in there with you.” “Bryan ? Bryan, you're only twenty- seven, Bryan, don't bolt both those do-" Sometime later, shortly after a recuperative stint monitoring the Japanese Consulate's Hundredth ‘Anniversary Exhibit in the Charles H. ‘Scott gallery, my family, for nothing better to do, moved. The movers we hired were thoroughly professional ‘save perhaps for their rehearsed lack of concem towards our property. But before cramming our things into their deceptively small truck they measured the lengths, widths, heighths, and other dimensions of our couches to the ads recommended). Press dough into oiled pan.Generously slather pizza sauce onto dough. Layer fruit last decimal, the relative densities of the television, channelled and recorded the past lives of each lamp; the movers believed in the mathematics of moving, like a religion. The head mover was a massive, barrel chested, belly baring, ‘coarse haired, blunt featured fellow who moved and spoke like a truly dis- contented physicist. He seemed embit- tered towards the Universe, as ifit had Not lived up to his figures. He was the sort of man who could deliberately and repeatedly root through a can of pork and beans for the piece of pork. When asked how he intended to wedge our dining room table under, without disturbing, a carjack on the: truck floor, he explained “I've got a hundred fity three I.Q., so don't fuck with me !" indenting my lungs with his hamhock pinkie as he did so. Iwas glad to have lost the breath with which to ask my next, apparently illogical ‘question of why. The answer would have been fatal. | just let him continue Calculating the molar mass of the microwave oven on his fingers and stutf the appliance into a space the size of an ant's bellybutton. As | now re- member the scene, those were the ‘same words with which he greeted me as well. While overseeing the hulks shove the last of our wallunits between a ‘coffee table and a hydrogen particle, 1 happened to notice the truck’s glove ‘compartment was ajar. Something was glistening fervently inside; Or some things. “What's this in the glove compart- ‘ment then ?"| asked, only slightly louder than the rumbling hum of fission from deep within the truck's vaults, “What ?" was the muffled reply. ‘Staring into the concrete lined compart- ment I discovered it was in fact a tesseract, that is, a space larger on the inside than out. Several hundred thousand times larger in this particular instance, and filed to the arched ceiling with memorabilia tableware, Royal Dalton figurines, 8x10 glossies, ‘bumperstickers and lava lamps, al bearing the machine painted, pastel ‘coloured image of Jean-Paul Il ‘One of the movers (it was dificult to tell the two apart as the second movers I.Q. was a close hundred fifty two ) flung me away from the truck into attelephone pole and, brandishing a ‘carjack, asked what the deuce | was up to. “Your glove compartment’ filed with Papal souvenirs I" | sweated aloud, more than Vancouver's economy can afford ! The entire population will go stony broke trying to keep up with the ~ selection you've got in there I" “They're not mine I" sputtered the slightly less brillant mover, “'m just holding them for a friend “You're Papal smugglers aren't you 7" Ihissed. The two men began to look increasingly nervous. Their t-shirts were dissolving in greasy sweat. "You talk of mathematics, applied fractals, quantum mechanics, subspace inver- sion, yet you supply millions of Vatican kitch junkies across Canada, Don't you 2 Why..." squinted my eyes and the movers winced, “Iilbet you aren't even atheists !"