The Value of Art

Yesterday I read Jonathan Mead’s Zero Hour Work Week and I lurved it. (If you haven’t read it, go here to pick it up – it’s a free PDF download.)

Jonathan’s whole principle is that you don’t have to hate your work and that if you find work that you’re passionate about and brings value to others, then suddenly, you can’t tell the difference between work and play. The line dissolves, and life is just fun.

I, for one, can vouch that this is true. My work is my play. I don’t know what I’d do for fun, because this is it.

So I’m reading along, enjoying everything thoroughly, when we suddenly get to the fourth section, the section wherein Jonathan kindly helps us figure out if we’ve found our way to our own zero hour work week.

And then he asks the question, the question that gets me every time I read a marketing book or take a marketing course.

Does your work have value?

Oh God. It’s the value question again.

I always get stuck here. Every single time, the examples of value that are given are things like, can you save them money? Can you help them save time? Can you make x easier for them?

Umm, no. Not really. My art will not save you money or make you money or prevent your early death.

It might brighten a room or brighten your day. But that’s an intangible value. And I guess my biggest worry is this: is the intangible value of my art just as legitimate as the practical value of an info product?

Of course, I’ve never been able to word it quite like that before. Usually I’d just get all frustrated and mad at myself and this dumb art thing that didn’t have clear cut benefits and features. (Oh benefits and features. How I freaking hate you.)

And when you think that what you do isn’t legitimately valuable, it makes it intensely hard to sell. You just end up feeling like a vampire, taking people’s hard earned money in exchange for this thing that even you’re not sure is valuable.

Ironically, whenever I’ve doubted the value of my work, my collectors and fans have always hotly and passionately defended it.

“Do you know how boring my house would be without it?” one of them once retorted.

Because the value of my work is so intangible, and so defined by the owner of the piece, it’s hard for me to sit down and say, “Okay, these are the benefits of my work.” One collector escapes to her piece whenever she’s feeling frustrated in her writing. Another collector meditates to his pieces. All of my commissioned pieces seem to cause people to squeal with delight. Can I predict that? Can I fit that into a neat little box of defined benefits? Not really. It’s a matter of taste. If you hate my work, you will never, ever see the value in it.

I would almost go so far to say that my work has no value until someone else has looked at it and interacted with it. (Excepting it’s value to me, of course.)

My work seems to bring people what they need, whatever that may be. Maybe it’s peace. Maybe it’s happiness. Maybe it’s escape from the daily grind. I can’t really say, but they always seem to find it.

Understanding value in different terms

Practical values aren’t the only things in the world that are important, no matter what internet marketing gurus might say. Sometimes it’s hope that you’re selling. Sometimes it’s inspiration. Sometimes it’s a fresh start. You can’t package that. You also can’t predict that.

And how on earth do you price it? How can you put a price tag on hope? Or motivation? Or peace of mind? The problem with intangible benefits is most of the time, those things are so priceless that it’s impossible to pin it down to a number. Maybe that’s why the price of art, particularly Old Masters, are so astronomical – their intangible value is so much more than any number you could put on it.

How much would you pay for beauty? For emotion? For life captured on canvas?

Nude #2 © Sarah Marie Lacy 2009. 36"x36" acrylic on canvas.

Tags: Art, Money, value