There are few lifestyles I idealize more than that of the artist. And I don't mean the starving artist. (I gave the starving writer life a whirl, and I can't say I recommend it.) I mean the artist who creates a vision truly original, executes it successfully, gets it on the canvas (or celluloid, or blank page, or CD), and inspires everyone to say, wow.I recently read about such an artist, Julie Mehretu—a lesbian—in The New Yorker, which is where the bourgeoisie get their glimpses of artists. Fittingly, Mehretu is an artist whose work explores themes of capitalism, economies, colonialism, migration, civilization. It's like when the Impressionists captured the bougie obsession with leisure in the 1870s. These days, rich folk with an eye toward art want images that take them deeper into the concept of compound interest.
Mehretu's work was instantly a hit among collectors, which means she is not commercial and does not do shows. She doesn't shill, and yet her stuff can sell for upwards of $1 million. Not that I don't appreciate her art. I do. It's gorgeous and complicated, so of course I like it. (After all, it's how I like my
When I lived in New York, I spent some time working for a private art curator on the Upper East Side. His clients were very wealthy. How wealthy? We visited a client's apartment in the Dakota to make sure the newly acquired piece looked okay next to the Whistler. A woman in a maid's uniform answered the door. I did not necessarily admire the people in that world. But I revered the art.
The article in The New Yorker centered around Mehretu's commission for the lobby of Goldman Sachs. Mehretu said she had no issues with working for a company perceived to be one of the big villains of Wall Street. "I don't see it as an evil institution," she said, "but as part of the larger system we all participate in. We're all a part of it. And, anyway, for me it was about making something—it was about the art."
