With a world in crisis and an art market spinning out of control, ace art-world consultants Chen & Lampert deliver hard truths in response to questions sent by Art in America readers from far and wide.
My artist talent agent has been working hard pursuing a brand collaboration that will take me to the next level, and he landed an offer from a top-tier fashion brand to do an athleisure line based on my painting. I’m totally psyched, but there are easy-to-Google articles about the parent company’s investments in weapons and prisons. It’s unfortunate, but like my agent said, what massive enterprise isn’t complicated these days? It feels like a waste to throw away this chance to expand my platform over things that are out of my hands. Shouldn’t the focus be on the good I can do once I’m in that position?
Your agent couldn’t be more right: The whole world has gone haywire. Suddenly, it’s become a moral problem to receive ACH transfers from multinational lifestyle brands. You wanted a collaboration to level up, but now that it’s happening, you’ve discovered that your new overlords are doomsday manufacturers who also sell workout clothes. Their brand is namaste and death. Your art and signature will soon adorn ass-gripping leggings made from parachute remnants that were sewn together by children in a mustard-gas factory. Fast fashion and total annihilation, all under the same corporate umbrella that has brought you in from out of the rain.
We just laid it on extra thick to highlight the obvious: The brand you’ve longed to work with is involved in evil. This could have easily been assumed, but it only required Wi-Fi and Grok to find proof. Let’s be clear: Signing with them means you are putting your career ahead of your conscience. There are no ethical bombs or good prisons. It would be one thing if you truly had no idea about their entanglements, but becoming a social warrior after the fact is dubious, and your cooperation in this collaboration will lead to a nefarious merch drop.
Who is the guilty party here: the ignorant customer standing in line for hours to score a BPA-free water bottle made by arms dealers, or the insightful artist who, knowingly and willingly, allies with a warmonger to fabricate organic jockstraps? Take ownership of your complicity to blight humanity in the name of art, yoga pants, and profit. You know more than you wish you did about what is going on upstairs, and yet this information doesn’t stop you from seeking justifications for moving forward. That’s the problem with knowledge: Sometimes it prevents you from getting rich.
I’m part of a Brooklyn painting crew that spends weeks scaling walls to make mural ads for luxury brands. I’ve painted cars, watches, celebrities—you name it. People on the street stop, take photos, and call it “art.” I went to art school, and I respect street art, but this is a joke. All I am is a human printer helping brands cash in on places where real art could be made instead. I feel like I’m ruining the city. Am I part of the problem, or is it just a job that I can’t quit because of my debt?
Hey, it’s a day job, and you found employment in your field of study. That’s a small miracle. Maybe you aren’t in the studio realizing your own visions, but at least this gig involves wielding a brush instead of hovering over a customer while they select the lowest-tip option on the handheld credit-card reader you just handed them. Be happy that you are gainfully employed just like the millions of New Yorkers who work as nurses, bank tellers, baristas, injury lawyers, sanitation workers, and assistant curators at museums. And rest assured that the fancy billboards you are painting will be covered up in a month. You aren’t permanently ruining the city. Brooklyn was already gentrified years before you picked up your paint roller and extension pole. If you want to find meaning in your work, think of it as making a sort of sand mandala: countless hours devoted to something that disappears with a single swipe.
Your queries for Chen & Lampert can be sent to hardtruths@artinamericamag.com
