I didn’t become an artist to buy a yacht. I became an artist because every time I tried to do anything else, I felt like I was borrowing someone else’s life.
Do I want more money? Of courseI do. But only enough to keep painting without asking permission. That’s not romance; it’s logistics. Money is studio rent, stretcher bars, Paints, brushes, time. It isn’t the point of the work, but it is the cost of telling the truth.
If I won the lottery tomorrow, I know exactly where I’d be: in the studio the day after, paint all over my hands, hunting the next decision. A beach might hold me for a few hours, maybe a day. Leisure isn’t my purpose. Work is. Not work as in “grind,” but work as in the practice of showing up, choosing, and accepting the consequences.
Two mottos guide me:
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Separate the attachment to an outcome from the understanding of the choices in front of me. Money tempts you to reverse that, promise an outcome, then rationalise your choices. I try to do the opposite. Make the best next choice the work demands, let the market respond, repeat.
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I define my success only by the magnitude of my endless failures. The more decisions I’m willing to make, and unmake, the closer the painting gets to being inevitable. Sales don’t validate the work; they fund the next honest mistake.
So yes, this is about money but only as the means to protect the integrity of the work. That requires a few unglamorous truths:
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Profit isn’t greed; it’s runway. Without margin, you can’t buy the time it takes to ruin a canvas and start again in the very process that makes the piece worth owning.
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Pricing is a boundary. It says, “This is the true cost of truth-telling.” Discounting can be a tool, but if it becomes a habit, you’re mortgaging tomorrow’s work to pay for today’s doubt.
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Marketing is part of the work. Not performance. Not pretending. Just placing the work where the right people can find it and giving them enough context to say “yes” or “not for me” without either of us flinching.
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Scale your ‘enough.’ “More” is a moving target. “Enough” can be designed. For me, it’s: keep the lights on, keep the materials flowing, keep the failure rate high enough that the breakthroughs stay honest.
People sometimes ask what I’m chasing. I’m not chasing “success.” I’m chasing clarity in the moment a painting stops negotiating and becomes itself. That clarity doesn’t care about yachts. It cares about whether I stood in front of the canvas and told the truth, choice by choice.
If that truth is bought, I’m grateful. If it isn’t, I still have to make the next one. Money is the tool that lets me keep that promise. Enough money is the art of making money.
If you’ve ever tried to balance integrity with invoices, you already know the math: keep your purpose non-negotiable and your business adjustable. Build a life where your best work isn’t a special event. It’s the daily consequence of having designed “enough” with intention.
Back to the studio. The next failure is waiting. And with it, the next honest painting.