The Other Art Fair

When I submitted my application to the fair for consideration, I knew my work was different from what I usually see in Australia. But I was curious to see how it would be received. My application was approved. I decided to treat the opportunity this gave me as a means to present what I had been working on for nearly a year for a potential solo exhibition. After all, I reasoned, a solo exhibition would incur similar cost, without the exposure that the fair promised.

Even so, somewhere in my subconscious, was a hope for at least a few of my works to sell. Selling seems to be the single, recognisable marker of success for artists, their families and the general public.

The Fair seemed to start off well. I sold a small work to an enthused buyer on the opening night. But thereafter, for three days, nothing made it past ‘great interest’ from visitors. I reasoned that the first of those subsequent days was a work day, so we probably didn’t have a lot of visitors. But then the weekend was similarly dry. I felt disappointed, I questioned my judgement and even, at times, my work. I say ‘at times’ because my work was one of the things I felt surest of. Every time I looked at my booth, I felt a surge of self-confidence. It was professionally presented, the paintings were all visually arresting, the colours were rich, saturated and the works together created a cohesive whole.

People kept stopping in front of my booth. Everyone gazed for at least a few minutes at the paintings, as a whole, before walking on. Many walked up to the ones they found especially interesting and inspected them closely. Only a very small minority simply walked on with a glance at my booth. I’d confidently say that for ninety percent of visitors, it was definitely something different, something that sparked their curiosity.

On the first day, visitors stopped at my booth and compared what they saw to the works of Frieda Kahlo, Amrita Sher-Gill and Gauguin! On all four days, many stopped to gaze at the paintings, then turned to ask why the women in the paintings were sad. Were they all me? What were they thinking? Many called the paintings ‘emotional’. Some said they were ‘moody’. One person said they were ‘gallery level’, and another commented they had soul.

And yet they did not sell. Why?

I have a few theories. The simplest, most basic one is what I heard from my neighbouring artists: the current state of the economy seemed to be the culprit. Most people had expected to, or were used to, selling much more. But only smaller, more affordable works seemed to be selling. I didn’t have small works. Or to be more accurate, I had a total of only two small works, one of which sold on the first day. So lesson number one: a variety of sizes, a variety of price points is necessary. People have varying budgets and home spaces.

The more interesting revelation seems to have been this, however: the general public is not necessarily open to melancholy on its walls. People seem to want to live with simple, bright, happy compositions, unfussed, non-confrontational subjects, against which TV dinners can be eaten, young families can be raised, life can be lived. We avoid ‘drama’. The absolute extent of broody art seems to be crashing waves on a beach, or dark skies on fields of green.

My work was heavy. A few people who stopped to look at it, left saying it was ‘thought-provoking’. It was the kind of work we are used to living with back home. In Pakistan we almost celebrate melancholy. We sing songs about it, write novels about it, paint it and hang it up on our walls and live our lives against its backdrop. We are not afraid of it. It is a condition of life and we accept it as such. But if I want to carve out space for myself in Australia, I need to delve into the cheerier recesses of my being perhaps?

One small thing though: I got invited to collaborate on a feature about my art by an art magazine :D. Maybe the sad ladies whispered something in someone’s ear!