Why the Fuck Does It Cost That Much?

Occasionally someone looks at an original artwork and asks, with genuine bewilderment:

“Why does it cost that much?”

Excellent question.

Let’s talk.

An original painting is not priced according to the cost of a tube of paint.

It is not priced according to the cost of canvas.

It is not priced according to how much someone personally thinks they would pay for it.

And it certainly isn’t priced according to the fantasy that an artist should spend two months making something and then sell it for $500 because “it’s just a painting.”

No.

What you are purchasing is the result of an entire economic ecosystem.

There is studio space. Electricity. Materials. Frames. Varnish. Brushes. Tools. Photography. Website fees. Printing. Packaging. Transportation. Storage. Insurance. Exhibition fees. Advertising. Taxes. Years of education. Decades of practice. Physical labour. Research. Concept development. Failed experiments. Finished works that never sell.

And then there is the invisible labour required to remain an artist while simultaneously functioning as your own studio assistant, photographer, archivist, webmaster, marketer, curator, accountant, shipping department and administrator.

Then there is time.

If an artwork occupies an artist full-time for two months, the question isn’t:

“Why would anyone pay $9,000 for that?”

The question is:

“How exactly is an artist supposed to survive while making it for $500?”

Rent does not become free because the artist is painting.

Groceries do not become free.

Transportation does not become free.

Storage does not become free.

The electricity doesn’t politely stop billing because someone is experiencing a creative breakthrough.

Artists have living expenses.

I cannot lower my art because I cannot lower my rent.

And I know this because I have spent approximately three decades living inside the starving-artist economy.

For years, making art meant calculating whether I could afford another canvas or whether that money needed to go toward groceries.

Could I buy the shoes?

Could I afford the exhibition fee?

Could I replace the materials?

Or did I need to wait another month?

Sometimes the solution was simply to paint over an existing canvas rather than buy another one.

Exhibition fees matter too. Building an exhibition history takes money. Building a professional résumé takes money. Applying for grants requires a professional practice and a documented history of exhibitions and accomplishments.

There is an entire economic game surrounding the production and survival of an artistic career that most people never see.

The artist is not simply standing at an easel making pretty things.

The artist is building an infrastructure.

And after decades of functioning inside scarcity, I am no longer interested in treating poverty as an artistic virtue.

Artists are allowed to thrive.

I need conditions in which I can actually work: time, safety, space, materials, stability, freedom, nourishment, rest, exploration and the ability to care for the body of work I have already created.

Those conditions cost money.

And there is another misconception worth dismantling:

The price of an artwork is not necessarily an instruction to buy it.

It is an invitation to determine whether you are its collector.

If you cannot afford an original, that does not mean the artist has priced it incorrectly.

There are prints.

There are smaller works.

There are different bodies of work.

There may be payment arrangements.

And sometimes the answer is simply:

“Beautiful. Not mine to own.”

That is perfectly okay.

Original art is not Walmart merchandise.

I am not attempting to manufacture the maximum number of identical objects at the lowest possible price. I am creating singular objects that carry the accumulated labour, knowledge, experience and resources of the person who made them.

Some works have also survived years of storage, transportation, exhibitions and physical labour. Some have enormous personal and material histories attached to them.

And sometimes, I don’t actually want to sell the thing.

That matters too.

If I own a rare or irreplaceable work, I don’t have to sell it simply because someone thinks it should cost less.

Scarcity is real.

Attachment is real.

Opportunity cost is real.

And my future is real.

If I sell an irreplaceable original, I am not merely exchanging an object for cash. I am giving up the possibility of owning, exhibiting, photographing, building upon, or eventually selling that work under different circumstances.

So yes.

Sometimes the number is high.

Sometimes the number is extremely high.

You are allowed to laugh.

You are allowed to think I’m insane.

You are allowed to ask me why.

And if you genuinely want to know, come talk to me.

I will tell you what went into the work.

Maybe you’ll decide the price is ridiculous.

Maybe I’ll decide you’re not my collector.

Or maybe you’ll look at the artwork, look at the number, understand what you’re actually being offered—and say:

“Holy shit. I want it.”

That’s the conversation I’m interested in.

Because artists don’t create in a vacuum.

We create within an ecosystem of time, resources, relationships, opportunity and support.

Artists pour outward.

We take in experiences, observations, conversations, landscapes, histories, questions, failures, beauty, grief, humour, knowledge and whatever else the world gives us. We transform it and send something back.

That process can continue for decades.

It can outlive us.

And when someone supports an artist—even with five dollars—they are contributing to the conditions that allow the work to continue.

Maybe that support buys a canvas.

Maybe it helps pay an exhibition fee.

Maybe it keeps the website alive.

Maybe it buys the groceries that allow the artist to spend another day at the easel instead of scrambling for survival.

Maybe it helps preserve work that might otherwise disappear.

The amount isn’t the whole story.

The willingness to participate matters.

You are not obligated to support every artist.

An artist is not entitled to your money.

And not every artwork is worth every price an artist might place on it.

But artistic labour has value.

Artists are allowed to determine the economic conditions under which they are willing and able to continue doing their work.

And artists are allowed to want more than survival.

I’ve done survival.

I’ve done scarcity.

I’ve done the calculations.

I’ve done the “canvas or groceries?” version of an artistic career.

I am interested in something else now.

I want to build the conditions in which the work can thrive.

Because when artists have the resources to thrive, they can create more, experiment more, preserve more, travel more, collaborate more, take risks, tell difficult truths, support other people and leave something behind that may outlive them.

That is what you are supporting when you support an artist.

You are not simply buying an object.

You are helping create the conditions from which the next object can exist.

And sometimes you are helping an artist build a life large enough to contain the work they were put here to make.

So if you see an original and think:

“Holy shit. That’s expensive.”

Good.

Ask me why.

Look at the work.

Look at the years behind it.

Look at the labour.

Look at the infrastructure.

Look at the life required to make it.

Then decide whether you want to participate.

Maybe you’ll buy a print.

Maybe you’ll buy an original.

Maybe you’ll commission something.

Maybe you’ll share the work.

Maybe you’ll put five dollars into the bucket.

Every genuine contribution matters.

Because artists pour outward.

And when something genuinely generous comes back into that process, we can alchemize it into more.

One more painting.

One more essay.

One more exhibition.

One more idea.

One more conversation.

One more piece of the legacy.

That’s the economy I want to participate in now.

Not the starving artist.

The thriving artist.