The Top Questions People Ask Me (That You Really Shouldn't Ask Artists)
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My studio is open to the public. I know — unusual. But I love it. The conversations, the connections, the unexpected moment when a stranger stands in front of a painting and something shifts in their face. Once, a research scientist on his way to Antarctica came in wanting something small for his desk. So I can say my art has been on every continent. Cool.
But there's a phenomenon that runs parallel to all of that. At least once a day — sometimes once an hour — people walk right in, don't look at a single piece of artwork, and start interviewing me on the spot. I call them the breezers. They breeze in, out, and through, dropping quips of wisdom and useless information along the way.
What follows is a completely real, entirely unembellished collection of humdingers. Let's go.
"Are You Open?"
The door is open. The lights are on. I am standing in front of you, holding a paintbrush, in my studio, surrounded by paintings.
Yes. We are open.
"You Certainly Are Prolific! Do You Paint a Lot?"
Of course, now I know they don't actually know what "prolific" means. I smile.
"I'm an artist too — well, I've only painted three things. I took a paint-and-sip class. So much fun. My instructor said I'm really good. Let me show you." Now they're scrolling through their phone while someone behind them is waiting to purchase a limited edition. The sipper turns, looks irritated at the paying customer, and asks, "Do you teach those? You should. Get some good wine — then you can charge more."
"That's a brilliant idea! Thanks for stopping in — excuse me while I assist my client."
"Did You Paint All of These?"
"Hi! Welcome to my studio, I'm the artist. My name's RD, and this is all my work."
"Did you paint all of these?"
Yes.
"You certainly are prolific. Did you paint this one?"
Yes.
"How about this one?"
Also yes.
"You painted everything in here?"
I did indeed. (Now I'm thinking I should invest in a beret and a broken cigarette taped to my lower lip.)
"Oh, I see. Wow, you certainly have a lot of time on your hands."
This is my profession. It's what I do. (Their inner art critic is about to arrive, so I get the full body armor out.)
"Full time? What else do you do?"
At this point I've destroyed their reality. The concept of an artist supporting themselves through art-making is too much to comprehend. They're now checking to see if I still have both ears. Yes — both ears, still attached. They sigh. "You certainly like a lot of color. So how's business? It must be hard, no?"
"Better than ever!" Wrong answer. No morsel of negativity. Off they go.
"How Long Did That One Take?"
The most popular question. Bear in mind there are a hundred pieces on the walls on any given day. Now if it's a summer day they are most often pinting with a dripping ice cream cone or some sticky confection from an outside establishment.
What people want to hear: "Three years."
What is true: "I have no idea. I lost track of time. I forgot to eat. It was Tuesday, and then suddenly it was a different Tuesday."
This is always followed by: "How Long Did This One Take?, How about this one? and this one? What about that one over there?"
You get the picture?
The correct answer, which I have never once given, is: "How long did it take you to become you? Or that child of yours?" The one that just picked it's nose and wiped it on that canvas. Ah, the joys of retail. Thank goodness for soap, water and paper towels.
"Can You Take My Child for Coffee and Encourage Them to Be an Artist That Makes Money?"
Not a class. Not a workshop. Just: coffee, with your child — whom I have not met — so that I may encourage them. A man you've never met before in your life.
I am not a babysitter-barista. I am not a psychologist. I am a painter. I do. But I can consult — for a prepaid fee equal to one day's business loss, per person in attendance, plus travel. You'll also be sitting there next to your pouting child.
Footnote: All unattended children will be sold to the circus or given an espresso and a free untrained puppy.
"My Uncle Pablo Is an Artist Too. Do You Know Him?"
Picasso? I ask.
"No — Pablo Sippanpaint."
Sorry. I don't. It's a big city.
"Are You Famous?"
Usually followed by: "I'm an artist too. I made this." (Phone opens...Scrolling for the two excruciating minutes begins. Ah there it is. Of course it's an assembly line Paint-and-Sip Class photo. ) 'My teacher said I have what it takes. I'm very talented."
"I see that."
"So how do I get famous?"
The only honest answer: you have to work. Like yourself. Love yourself. Work like you're tap-dancing for your life, in gasoline soaked panties, at the gates of hell. Then get better at it. Nobody wants that answer — it's not romantic. So I say: "Practice, and show everyone what you do."
They look at me, eyes glazed over. Practice? Yuck! So the follow-up arrives: "You're lucky. Do you actually make money doing this? Do you have a sugar daddy?"
They've actually asked this. A lot. "No sugar daddies were harmed in the making of this presentation. And I've never been to the funeral of an artist who starved to death. Have you? I've paid my own way. I'm my own sugar daddy thank you very much. But hey if someone wants that title feel free to reach out. But be warned I have my standards."
"Do You Really Make Money Doing This?"
Yes, They are for sale if you hadn't noticed. Besides here I am standing in my studio, which I pay rent for, surrounded by paintings I made with supplies I paid for, speaking to a stranger who walked in off the street. Do I need a "I'm my own Sugar Daddy" Tee shirt?
Short answer: Yes. Will that be credit, debit, Apple, or tap?
"Is That a Photograph?"
It's a painting on canvas.
"How did you get the texture?"
With a paintbrush. You push the paint and it makes texture.
This one I love, even when it makes me want to lie down on the floor and have a tantrum. But someones elses toddler already did that an hour ago so I know better. I gues the photograph assumption means something worked. I receive this with grace — then, after they leave, I roll my eyes at the ceiling for a while.
"Have You Slept With All Your Models?"
"All of them? The real ones or the imaginary ones?"
Answer: depends which painting you're looking at. If it's a self-portrait, then yes. Otherwise, most likely no. I wonder now. Should I get a sugar daddy? Next question.
"I See This Guy a Lot. Is That Your Husband?"
The male figure has appeared in my work for years — a compositional anchor, a thematic touchstone. Whether any of my models is my husband is, with the greatest respect, absolutely none of your business. Unless you're a professional matchmaker. Otherwise, enjoy the paintings.
(At the time of writing: quite single, for quite a while.)
"Can You Make Me Look Younger?"
I'm a fine artist, not a surgeon. Though I am a certified hypnotherapist.
Have you considered that the lines on your face are the most compelling thing about you? That I would paint you exactly as you stand here, and it would just might be the truest, most beautiful thing I've made this year?
What I actually say: "You're gorgeous. Trust me — you are enough."
"Do You Have Anything Less Expensive?"
Yes — signed limited edition prints. Would you like to see them?
"I only buy originals. Are these reproductions original?"
...No. That's what makes them prints.
"Can I Take a Picture of Your Painting?"
"Then I can take it to Big Box Mart and have them make a canvas print. Less expensive than buying the original."
YES! Actually said right to my face! That's exactly why the sign says NO PHOTOS. My attorney loves rip-off artists. Please do send me a link to your fake art website. (Quietly dies inside as my work disappears into someone's Instagram captioned "stuff I saw today.")
Should I put out a tip jar that says: (This Is The Thanks For Taking A Picture Of Everything In The Art Studio And Not Purchasing A Thing Jar)
"Did You Really Paint That Yourself?"
We've been over this. Yes.
Now thre's THIS. Not a question but statement that has made me question peoples finess. "I heard you died!" — said to me at more than one public event, and in my own studio. Still here. You'd better hold on to that original longer. As Oscar Wilde said: "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
"Can You Paint My Dog?"
Genuine yes. Bring me the photos — the dog is going to be magnificent. Dogs don't ask to be made younger, don't question whether I painted everything in here, and have never once asked if I'm famous. Dogs are my favorite clients.
"I see you paint. I have this picture. Can you paint it?"
(They then show me Grandma Consuelo in full open casket. Live models only, in Pre-planted peaceful poses, please.) Where do people dig up these things?
"Are You the Artist?"
Yes. I welcomed you in and introduced myself. But yes — still me, still the artist, still surrounded by the art I made.
"How do you do it? With the earthquakes and all — you should move to East Tunaferd. Thriving arts scene."
I'll take a five-second shake over a category-anything tornado barreling toward me. But thanks.
"Where Do You Find Your Inspiration?"
Everyone wants the romantic answer. A dream. A muse. A lightning bolt from the gods.
Here's the truth: if you sit around waiting for inspiration, you will starve to death. It's a lovely fantasy perpetuated by people who have never had to make rent with a paintbrush.
Real artists roll up their sleeves. You step up to the canvas and go. All or nothing.
What inspires me? The monthly bills. Food on the table. Saving for my future. Knowing I can provide for myself with the talent I have, while I can. No one is coming to save the artist. We get to work. We look for the opportunities our work can fill.
When you do what you love — and it brings beauty into someone else's life — that's when success becomes possible. Now that's inspiring.
And Finally: The Grand Finale
Two people walk in. They don't see me — I'm at my worktable, paint on my hands, deeply unglamorous. One sweeps an arm around the room and says to the other, with braggadocious authority:
"I used to date the artist. That's not him — must be an assistant."
I had never seen this person before in my life.
I set my brush down and became a witness to my own mythology.
Now trust me. I'm not bitter. These are very funny questions to me. I am always suprised and thrilled by the people who love, purchase and collect my works. I'm so grateful to them for making my artist living possible.
My studio is open to the public, and I mean it when I say: please come in. Ask me anything. I love you all — every bewildering, curious, wonderful one of you.
And yeah. I made all this stuff.
And One More, On the Way Out
Lights off. Door locked. Keys in hand, walking away.
"Are you closed?"
Are You an Artist?
Do strangers pepper you with questions in your studio, gallery, or workspace? What's the most baffling, funniest, or most cringe-worthy thing someone has ever asked you?
Drop it in the comments. We're all in this together — paint-stained sleeves and all.
— RD Riccoboni