“Why did they give a show to ██████ instead of me? Her work sucks. I just don’t get it.”
I was sitting across from B, a certain artist of great wisdom and wit, forking an omelette while engaging in every artist’s favorite pastime – talking shit, and complaining about gatekeepers.
The diner was one of those places that opened forty years ago and hasn’t changed a thing since. Original furniture, original menu, original wait staff. Dependable and reliably uncool. The kind of place where you can sit for hours without getting sideways with the waitress.
“I wish I didn’t feel jealous all the time.”
B shrugged.
“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “Make your own fun.”
B excused himself to the restroom. I sat there quietly for a moment while his words rattled around in my head.
Make your own fun.
The advice rang true for me. I’ve always been a fan of the D-I-Y mindset. But how do you actually do that?
A few months later, an 11×11 foot storage room became available in my studio for only a few extra bucks in rent.
The thought crossed my mind that I could turn it into a gallery for my own work – but that idea felt selfish and honestly, kind of boring.
“Hey, do you want to come over to my studio and sit in a private viewing room?”
Lame.
I thought of all the artists I know who make great work that doesn’t get shown.
What if I offered that room to friends to use as a temporary space to show work?
I landed on Nothing Special – a series of shows that made a virtue of the space’s limitations.
The fact that it was a cramped little room and that the only people who would come were friends of the artists was its superpower. Basically, the artists had free reign to share whatever they wanted with a select group of peers.
One show turned into another, and another. I even got funding to mount a group exhibition at a sister space in Berlin.
All kinds of interesting people came by whom otherwise I wouldn’t have met.
Even better, Nothing Special gave me a chance to help out artists in my circle of friends by giving them an opportunity to share work outside of their own studios. It was hard work, and super fun.
I had built something meaningful without really intending – a vector point for close friends and peers to get together and share what we were working on.
Over the years, “make your own fun” took on different forms – some modest, some more ambitious.
But the version that stayed with me most was one of the smallest.
It happened during Covid.
During lockdown, I painted a triptych featuring a pattern of bugs and white flowers over an expanse of green canvas.
I had worked on it for months, but when it was ready to share, the art scene was still on ice, leaving me with no chance to show it publicly.
Then it occurred to me: I had painted Lawn Daisies for my family.
Make your own fun.
I decided to host the exhibition in our living room – for my family.
I wrapped the canvases for transport at my studio just as if they were being picked up by art handlers, and drove them across town to my apartment in Mar Vista.
Vanessa printed a guest list, Grey held the tape measure, and I hung the work. Martinelli’s apple cider was served in champagne flutes. We listened to music and I shared about the work with my two V.I.P. guests.
It was a little silly, a little sweet, and a lot of fun.
Lawn Daisies was essentially Nothing Special stripped down to its spiritual core. No scene, no cool, no networking. The type of gallery where you could hang out for hours without getting sideways with the owner.
It was about connection, rather than status.
Not “come look at my paintings,” but: we can make an occasion out of this; we can show up, be together, and treat this like it matters.
It reversed the usual artist fantasy. Not “one day the world will validate this and then it will feel real,” but: “I’m going to make this real right now with the people in my life who are already here.”
Further Reading:
He jabbed his finger into my drawing. “This is small action,” he said. And then he turned and walked away.
