I quit my job with no collectors, no galleries, and not much of a plan. Just a feeling.
I’d been making abstract art for about four years at that point. Not professionally. Not with any real intention of selling. Just making — because I couldn’t not. And then one day I decided that was going to be the job. No safety net, no guarantee, no roadmap. Just the work and the decision to back it.
Looking back, I have no idea how I thought that was going to work. But I also think that not knowing is probably why it did.
The beginning was unglamorous
Zero collectors. Zero galleries. Zero income from art.
What I had was time, stubbornness, and a willingness to do things that probably weren’t in any “how to become an artist” guide. Like walking into galleries cold. Which, for the record, you’re not supposed to do. I did it anyway. Showed them the work, talked about what I was making, and some of them said yes. Those first gallery relationships came from nothing more than showing up and refusing to be embarrassed about wanting to be taken seriously.
I applied to the Leigh Art Trail. I did shows at local gyms. I joined group exhibitions. I said yes to anything that would get the work in front of people — not because every opportunity was the right one, but because I hadn’t yet figured out which ones were. The only way to learn that was to do them all.
At the same time I was building a website, figuring out social media, photographing work on my phone, writing captions, answering enquiries, packing and shipping — all the stuff nobody tells you about when they romanticise the idea of being a full-time artist. There is no version of this job that is just painting. Not at the start. Maybe not ever.
The first two years were slow
I sold. But I didn’t set any records.
My prices were lower than they should have been — partly because I was still learning, partly because confidence in pricing takes time to build. I did the wrong shows and learned they were wrong by doing them. I did the right shows and learned they were right by the conversations I had, the collectors I met, the sales that felt different from the ones that didn’t.
There’s no secret formula in any of that. No trick I figured out that unlocked everything. It was just exposure — getting the work seen by as many people as possible — and then keeping going when it didn’t work. Because rejection is part of this. Not occasionally. Constantly. The artists who build something are the ones who don’t let that stop them.
What I know now that I didn’t know then
Your prices will go up as your confidence does. Don’t rush it but don’t undervalue yourself for too long either — it attracts the wrong buyers and it communicates the wrong thing about the work.
Not every show is worth doing. But you won’t know which ones are until you’ve done a few of the wrong ones.
Gallery relationships matter. The galleries that represent me now aren’t the result of a strategy. They’re the result of showing up, being easy to work with, and making work that does what it says it will do.
Social media is not a shortcut. It’s a long game. The followers who became collectors didn’t happen overnight. They happened because they watched the work develop over months and years and eventually trusted what they saw.
And the most important thing — the thing I’d tell anyone who’s thinking about making this leap: the feeling that made you want to do it in the first place is the most important information you have. I quit a job on that feeling. I’m glad I did.
The blur
The first two years feel like a blur now. Packed. Relentless. Occasionally terrifying. But the version of me that came out the other side had done Leigh Art Trail, had gallery representation, had real collectors, had learned enough about the business of being an artist to build something sustainable.
None of it happened because of a secret. It happened because I kept going.
That’s still the whole strategy.
