She was a public librarian and he was a night clerk at the post office. Together, they amassed one of the most significant collections of minimalist and conceptual art in the world—so large, in fact, that when they tried to donate it, it couldn’t be accommodated by a single institution. Their names are Dorothy and Herbert Vogel. Neither one came from money and they lived together in a tiny apartment on civil servants’ salaries.
Anytime I hear someone refer to art collecting as the domain of the wealthy and the powerful, I want to scream. We’ve been sold this lie because it serves the art establishment. The more exclusive the art is, the more that people want it. And the more that people want it, the more the commodity is worth. The more that commodity is worth, the more it lends exclusivity and prestige to those who obtain it, thereby maintaining the endless cycle of scarcity and desire upon which all aspirational Instagram feeds are built. The traditional power structures of the art world rely on keeping people like you and me and the Vogels out.
But it’s actually quite easy for us to break the system. All we have to do is take a few pages out of the Vogels’ playbook. If we do, we can shift the power of the art establishment by putting more of it in the hands of artists. And the blueprint for collecting that they gave to us isn’t at all hard to follow.
The Vogels only collected works of living artists—often buying directly from their studios—and made arrangements to pay in installments. The artists went out of their way to accommodate the Vogels’ budget because the artists recognized them as true lovers and appreciators of art. There’s even a story about them acquiring a valuable collage by Christo and Jeanne-Claude in exchange for cat sitting. It is a nearly universal truth that artists want their work to live in homes where it will be cherished every day. And while artists must be able to earn a living from their practice, and we should always honor the price that they put on their work, that doesn’t preclude the more flexible arrangements that can happen between artists and collectors that wouldn’t be possible in more formal settings.
In case you think the Vogels are anomalies of a bygone era, I want to tell you about one of the most beloved art collectors in Portland that almost every gallery has on their books. He is a driver for package delivery company who lives in a small apartment in a nondescript building and has one of the most incredible art collections I’ve ever seen. Every vertical surface—including the baseboards and the cupboards—are covered in art. He has a monthly art budget, which he uses to make payments toward his newest acquisition. As soon as that one is paid off, he starts paying down another. And then another and another and another until his home is better than any museum you’ve ever been to.
I’ve been collecting like the Vogels for years—which is to say scrappily, on a tiny budget, and only buying work from living artists—and I’m constantly surprised, amazed, and overwhelmed by how many wonderful things and experiences it has brought into my life. Here’s just the latest example:
In the summer of 2020, one of the artists I follow on Instagram posted a picture of her studio. I spied a painting, lying on its side against the back wall, that made me gasp out loud to an empty room. It was a work of abstract expressionism, which is not a style I’ve ever collected or am even particularly drawn to. But this painting was talking to me. We had a thing. I kept logging into Instagram just to look at it in my saved folder, as though I were in eighth grade and it was a picture of a boy I had a crush on.
I reached out to the artist to tell her that I was interested in her work and wanted to see if it was within my price range. I asked if she sold pieces directly from her studio or if she had a gallery I would need to go through. She responded with a PDF of all of her available works and an accompanying price list. The painting with which I was having a secret love affair? It was available and reasonably priced, though it was more expensive than any other piece of art I’d ever purchased. I couldn’t afford to buy it outright, so I asked if she ever accepted payment plans. She said absolutely. I proposed an initial down payment, which I had saved up for, and then a smaller monthly sum until it was paid off. She told me the painting was mine and she was marking it sold.
In October, after I’d made the down payment and the first installment, I lost my job in the middle of the pandemic with no immediate prospect of finding another one. Suddenly, the payment plan that I had proposed wasn’t remotely possible. I emailed her to tell her what had happened and I was preparing to ask if I could put what I’d already paid toward a less expensive work on paper. Instead, she said, “This is your painting. Just send me whatever you can whenever you can and don’t worry about it.”
On November 1st, I sheepishly sent her the largest sum that I could afford that month, which was a pittance. The next day—the day before the 2020 presidential election, when everyone’s shit was all apart—I received word that the painting had been shipped to me. It was obviously a mistake because at the rate I was now paying off the piece, I wasn’t due to lay eyes on it for almost two years. When I contacted the artist about the mix-up, she wrote, “Look-there’s so much I cannot fix right now personally or with this country, but at the very least, I can send you your art. I know things are extremely difficult and scary right now, but I hope having it with you helps as we go through it all. Truly.”
I am crying as I copy her words here for you, just as I cried the first time I read them myself. An act of kindness of that magnitude felt impossible.1 She didn’t know me. I was a stranger from the internet. And yet, she chose to place her faith in the relationship between her work and someone who loved it madly. I’m still paying off the piece, and things are still extremely difficult and scary, but she was absolutely right: having it with me has helped me get through. It reminds me, everyday, of beauty and kindness and the indomitability of the creative spirit.
There is only one cardinal rule to art collecting: buy what you love. Buy work that speaks to you or comforts you or challenges your perspective, work that you want to hang on the baseboards and the cupboards. It’s an opportunity to support artists you admire and to help them put more of their work into the world. The price of a piece does not reflect its value. Its true value is what it brings to your life.
Tips for new collectors when reaching out to artists about their work:
Don’t be shy about expressing appreciation for their work or sharing why you love it.
Tell them that you’re interested in purchasing something if it’s possible within your budget.
Remember that this is an artist’s business and livelihood, so be respectful of the process and of their time.
Ask if they sell directly from their studio or if they are represented by a gallery that you should go through.
If they sell directly, and you have specific works you’re interested in, ask if any are available and what the prices are.
Once you get the price list, determine what type of fee schedule (if any) would be comfortable for you to adhere to. Be honest about what is possible for you based on your budget and ask respectfully if the artist would consider a payment plan. (For example, you might offer to pay a certain percentage of the cost up front and then a smaller amount each month for, say, five months. Or you could propose making equal payments for a slightly longer period. You can come up with something that works for both parties whether the piece costs $200 or $2000.)
The responses will vary widely from artist to artist depending on their financial circumstances and needs. So, if what you’re proposing isn’t do-able for them, don’t take it personally. Ask them what they would need to make it work over what period of time. If you can come to an arrangement that is mutually agreeable, you’ve got yourself a piece of art. If not, let them know that you’ll look forward to collecting their work in the future if your financial situation changes. Or you could ask them to let you know if any smaller works in a lower price range become available.
Please note: many galleries are happy to arrange payment plans too! You’ll have to inquire about them, though, because they’re usually not advertised. (If you ask about an installment plan and they look down their nose at you, turn on your heel and walk out. Galleries that are devoted to nurturing new collectors will embrace you and make collecting as accessible as possible.) If they do offer payment plans, they may be more structured or have specific requirements—like the percentage required up front or the total number of payments allowed—but some galleries are more flexible than others. And if you find a gallery that is excited to work with you, it can be a really wonderful relationship that will introduce you to the work of new artists.
Rest assured, I will be devoting an entire post to this artist and her practice. But I’m keeping her anonymous here so that other strangers from the internet don’t bombard her with requests, expecting to get their art before they’ve paid for it. No one should ever expect that, particularly when an artist is accommodating a payment plan request. This was a pandemic-inspired act of grace by an extraordinarily kind human.
Wonderful and moving column. Inspiring as well. We who are not artists would love to understand better how to value a work. As outdoor art fair season nears, how do you know if that work you love is worth $700, $250, or $6,000? I totally value the artist. No clue how to "value" the art.
I appreciate your writing very much