Ahh, the pride and the pain, the elation and the emptiness…. Echo has been sold.
I was awakened on Sunday morning by a call from the curator of the art sale where Echo was on display: a collector was interested in the piece, but he wanted to haggle. Less than ten minutes later, the deal was done. Echo was sold.
It was my first big sale and the excitement evoked a sort of manic euphoria–I was up and working for nearly 26 hours after I received the call–but it was not without a tinge of sadness. Echo was my second stone sculpture, and probably my second favorite, just barely trailing Hero. Now, when I walk by my sculpture shelf, there is a hole. The slick contours I would trace with my fingers, often many times a day, are now gone. Forever.
I came to grips a long time ago with the fact that, if I want to be a professional artist, I would need to sell my work. It’s kind of implicit in the whole “professional” thing. I knew that Echo would eventually sell; still, when the time came it was hard. Very hard. In fact, I almost backed out of the deal, but I knew it was what I had to do. I knew that Echo would find a new shelf–a new home. It would be well cared for, and would likely be seen by far more people (including prospective collectors) than would ever see it sequestered away in my apartment. So I sent my baby out into the world.
Echo‘s spot on the shelf will not remain empty for long. My current projects are all too big for that shelf (in fact, they’re too big for my apartment, so I have to sell them), but I’m always conceiving more, and so the hole will eventually be filled… until the new piece sells. And so it will go, with new works being driven, at least in part, by the vacuum left by their predecessors. And that’s the way it should be, but I hope you’ll indulge me as I wallow, if only for a little while, in some wistful reminiscence.