Bea V. Larsen . . . .Commentaries |
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Bea V. Larsen is a Senior Mediator at the Center for Resolution of Disputes in |
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Valued Only In The Marketplace: Part II This entry was posted on 8/8/2009 8:00 AM and is filed under Generally Speaking. In this commentary I revisit a story I told some time ago. But the ending has changed. After living in the same home for over forty years, I moved twice, each time to less space, requiring the jettison of many belongings, retaining only the essentials and our most treasured possessions. Len and I were least willing to part with the artwork we’d collected over more than fifty years. Some pieces we gifted to children and friends, but those with greatest meaning still surround me and lift my spirits. Many have a story to be told. One such painting is by an artist of some note living in the northeast. My mother studied with him in the 1960's and a close friendship developed between them. I admired those of his works that hung in my parent's home, beautifully executed impressionist oils. Some had a haunted quality, understandably, as they derived from the suffering and losses of the artist’s family during the holocaust, and his later return to the remains, the reminders. As the years went by, his work was displayed in well-established N.Y.C. galleries and sold for ever more substantial sums, greatly enhancing the family's income, his share soaring well beyond his wife's salary as a teacher. I followed the advancing career of this man each time I talked of the art world with my mother. Several books of his work were published. But, after a visit of his family with my mother in the mid-1980's, he then sixty-seven, I learned that none of his paintings were any longer being offered for sale. This is the story I was told: The artist had been diagnosed with a serious illness and given a poor prognosis. His response to this grim news was to make a pact, just with whom I'm not sure, that if his illness was arrested and his health restored, he would never again sell another painting. Even before his ominous health forecast, he had begun to question the negative impact of commerce on his own and the work of others, thinking that free of “the market” he could explore wherever his art (or muse) might lead. He decided he would only make gifts of his work, to the museums and schools that sought his donations. His health was restored. He continued to paint, his work ever more evolved, but never again to be sold. Some years after my mother's death, my husband and I were traveling through upstate New York and decided to visit the artist's home. We were warmly greeted and soon shown into the climate controlled storage facility in his basement. It was filled to overflowing with what appeared to be well over a hundred canvasses, the collection of more than a decade. A remarkable feast for our eyes, but seen only by those who traveled to his modest country home. As we talked, we learned he had offered his paintings to museums and universities previously eager to have them. Some accepted, but most did not. Puzzling. Apparently, because his paintings were no longer being exhibited in galleries and sold as in the past, at exalted prices, their value was called into question. What I had to ask: Is it that one's labor has no meaning unless it is validated by the marketplace? At least in this case, so it appeared. But there is an addendum to this story. This week I googled the artist, now in his nineties, and learned that his grandchildren had prevailed upon him to display his works online, on a website they created and manage. They are not for sale, but in 2006 an agreement was reached with a Foundation whereby all of his past and future work would be owned, administered and ultimately dispersed. The Internet and his grandchildren offer a different answer to my question. CommentsDisplay comments as (Linear | Threaded)
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