The name of the game is branding, people. It’s about value. I’m trying to turn myself into a Birkin bag.
Okay, yes. We have our down moments, people. It happens. But I was going to make this work. Attention must be paid, and all that.
I sent out more emails. I emailed friends of friends. I tried to guess rich people’s emails based on their rich-sounding names.
You have to understand, people. This was many years ago. This was before Snapchat, Instagram, and Twitter.
Meanwhile, I decided to paint as if my life depended on it. I wanted to believe that my entire oeuvre was going to sell in a matter of days, and that I needed to create inventory to meet the coming demand.
I wrote press releases to introduce myself to the media. I cold-called reporters, who either hung up on me or asked what I was wearing.
Still, I tried not to panic. I had less than a thousand dollars in my checking account, and I could still pay my rent. So what if I went a little hungry? Eating is overrated. (Not really, but sometimes you have to lie to yourself to get through the day.) Anyway, buying painting supplies was more important to me than buying food, and I believed that making art was a better investment for my future than eating. I was like a racehorse with blinders on. Nothing was going to get in my way.
THERE’S A LESSON IN THERE SOMEWHERE . . . SOMETHING ABOUT NOBODY GIVING YOU NOTHING, SOMETHING ABOUT GETTING YOUR NAME OUT THERE, SOMETHING ABOUT MAKING SHIT HAPPEN FOR YOUR OWN SELF. OR AS MY DADDY LIKES TO SAY, “HE WHO TOOTS HIS OWN HORN CONTROLS THE VOLUME.”
Then, miracle of miracles, slowly but surely, I began to sell paintings. Not many. Just a few here and there, enough to keep myself from slipping into total destitution. When a painting sold, I put a big SOLD sticker across the front. Gone, bitches! You didn’t move fast enough! Every painting I sold lit a fire inside me. I was going to show everyone who ever said I couldn’t do it that not only was I making art, but I was selling the shit out of it too. Whenever I left the house, I smiled and tried to look optimistic. And every time I was introduced to anyone, I told them I was an artist, that I’d love to show them my work, and that I would be happy to drive over to their house in my big-ass Expedition at their earliest convenience, like right that very minute, even. I did this without sounding desperate, though, delivering my lines with the aplomb of a Southern lady who didn’t have a care in the world.
This was around 2004. I distinctly remember that because suddenly Facebook was the next big thing, and I immediately saw its potential: an opportunity to make new friends I didn’t know! I reached out to all sorts of wonderful strangers, and we connected, and the next thing I knew, I’d be loading up the old truck and heading over. No, no! No charge. I know other galleries charge $300 just to come over and look at your walls, but that’s not the way Ashley rolls. Happy to be here. Let’s see how it looks over the fireplace . . . Oh? You like it? Something for the house in Vail? Hmmm, let me think . . . possibly.
Don’t misunderstand. This didn’t happen fast. But I did manage to eke out a living. I realized I wasn’t getting enough exposure doing it alone, despite all my new collectors, so I went the gallery route. I wanted to see what more I could get from the art world. Two places actually offered to represent me, but I said no. This 50 percent shit didn’t work for me. On the other hand, if they wanted to host a show, and they wanted to get reasonable about their rates, we could talk. Most galleries wouldn’t budge. They still won’t.
Again, I don’t know where I got the balls to suggest this, all I know is that I wanted to succeed, on my own terms, and that I had to take some chances to make it happen. And it did begin to happen. I had a show, shared a doobie with friends, sold some stuff. Had another show, another doobie, sold some more stuff. Not enough, mind you, but enough to make me believe that in the not-too-distant future I might actually be able to support myself as an artist.
It’s all about self-promotion, people. A lot has changed since the Dark Ages of my late youth. There was no social media then. No tweeting. No Instagram. And YouTube didn’t come along till much later. And, God, did I love YouTube! I started making little videos of myself and emailing them to everyone on my list. (Google “Ashley Longshore YouTube” and you’ll get the general idea.) Compared to YouTube, email was Dullsville. With YouTube, I could be that loud, gregarious girl my mother had once considered medicating into quietude. YouTube was also fun. It didn’t start that way—it started with desperation—but it became fun.
Today, with social media being what it is, I’m out there all day every day. And I’m not afraid to say whatever the fuck I want. (I say fuck a lot, I know; I’m sorry. It’s my own personal exclamation point.) I like putting my personality out there; I like letting people get to know me, the artist behind the art. And if they find me offensive, well, they can get the fuck off my feed.
In the early days, when the press called, I put myself out there. I’d talk to anyone. Now, I’m a little more discerning about who I talk to, and who I talk about. (“Yes, it’s true. I sell my work to movie stars and billionaires.”) It’s not just about me. Self-promotion is important for my fabulous and near-fabulous clients, and for that totally fabulous client who just wired $30,000 into my checking account. They want to see my name in print, too. They want to show the magazine to their friends. “This here is Ashley Longshore, that self-taught artist from Montgomery, Alabama, I’ve been telling you about. We have three of her pieces. We might commission an original.”
The name of the game is branding, people. It’s about value. I’m trying to turn myself into a Birkin bag.
And here’s the thing: I sell to a lot of art collectors, which is great. It tells me they think I have value, that I’m an investment. But I also want people to buy my art because it speaks to them. The girl who puts aside 30 percent of her paycheck every month so she can get the Chanel bag she’s been dreaming about, that’s who I want as a client, because that is who I am as a consumer. I’m not a billionaire or a movie star either! Someone who falls in love with one of my paintings and saves up their hard-earned cash because they absolutely have to have it? That’s the kind of buyer who means the most to me.
IF ENOUGH PEOPLE fall in love with my work, I’ll be a brand, and I’d like that good shit to happen now, while I’m still breathing. I mean, look at Van Gogh: Poor guy only ever sold one painting in his life. Didn’t have Instagram. Born in the wrong century, I guess.
Of course, I’m not sure Van Gogh would have been a tireless self-promoter, and, as long as we’re being honest here, that’s what it takes.
Take the Kardashians. Please. I’m sure they serve an important role in society (not that I know what it is), and I love those fertility-god asses, but what impresses me most is their gift for branding. Nobody would know who these people were if Kim Kardashian hadn’t put in that extra little wrist twist when she was making her home porno with Ray J (fuck yeah, I watched it. She looks damn good in it), but they’ve turned that into an empire. Those girls are closers. They can sell nothing—and that’s exactly what they sell.
There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Y’all figure it out. Something about nobody giving you nothing, something about getting your name out there, something about making shit happen for your own self. Or as my daddy likes to say, “He who toots his own horn controls the volume.”
6
A Not-So-Desperate Housewife
I HAD ANOTHER LIFE, too—a life outside of my career. Remember that guy I met at Jazz Fest, the one whose parents had a house on the beach? Well, we were still tangling. And right around this time, my father decided to remarry, and Mr. Jazz Fest and I went to the wedding. I was very happy for my father. I loved my stepmother. I thought my daddy had done real good.
The wedding took place in Dallas, and there was a rehearsal dinner the night before. Mr. Jazz Fest and I got completely shit-faced. We spent most of the rest of the night driving around Dallas in a limousine, doing more drinking, smoking weed, and hitting the clubs until they closed. When we
got back to the hotel, at around 3 a.m., he proposed to me. He didn’t have a ring or anything, but I think I remember him getting to his knees, or maybe falling to his knees, and I was like, Oh, my God! Yes! That’s so awesome!
When I woke up the next morning, hungover as hell, I didn’t totally remember what had happened. Apparently, I was engaged! My fiancé was already awake and on the phone with his parents. He was like, “Oh, my God! Yes! Ashley said yes! I’m so excited.”
I thought to myself, You know, this guy is so nice and I love his family, so let’s just see what happens.
About ten months later, we were married. It was puppy love, and we were young and hopeful. I think maybe he was the first really nice guy I’d ever been with. Plus, his family was absolutely terrific, and they loved him, so I decided to love him too.
This period of my life holds an important lesson for all you women out there: When you marry someone, you have to marry them exactly as they are. You can’t marry the idea of the man. That guy there, that’s what you’re going to get, and it’s all you’re going to get. He’s not going to change, to suddenly become more than he is now. That shit ain’t going to get better. So I learned my lesson, the hard way: Marriage is a legal contract; it ain’t always about love.
DURING THIS TIME, I met who I thought was a very cool New York fashion designer through an extremely pretentious interior decorator, and he loved my work, and that helped distract me from my seriously challenging marriage.
AT ONE POINT, A GUY FROM SECURITY CAME UPSTAIRS, KNOCKED ON MY DOOR, AND ASKED IF I WAS OKAY. “YES,” I SAID, AND I SMILED A LUNATIC SMILE. “I’M FINE. I’M JUST CRYING.”
When the designer told me he wanted to host a show for me in New York City, I almost plotzed. New York City! Seriously? I was a young, naive artist; I didn’t realize that New York was a whole ’nother fucking ballgame. The highs are really high, but the lows can be really fucking low.
I arrived at this designer’s huge, trendy, downtown apartment and was blown away. I had never really been exposed to a world like that before. The designer took me for lunch at Cipriani downtown, a restaurant where all the Wall Street guys hung out and told each other how rich they were, I guess. One of his friends, a hedge-fund guy, had taken a liking to my art and had sent out an email to all of his equally moneyed-up buddies telling them about this hot, young artist from New Orleans. Suddenly, my phone started ringing off the hook, and there were people on the other end who wanted to give me money for my paintings. At the time, I thought it was all the money in the world.
I had never, ever, ever thought I could make that much fucking money in my life! I was in shock. I excused myself from lunch and went outside to smoke a cigarette and bawl my goddamn eyes out, right underneath a huge statue of a bull. The Maître d’ came over to check on me, and I told him, through my tears, how excited I was to finally be making it. He looked me up and down and said, “Darling! You are the Matadora of New York City!” Right then, I felt the rush of New York City. It’s like a drug. I thought that things could only get better at the event being thrown for me later that night.
I WAS WRONG. It couldn’t have gone worse. I, of course, had no idea that I was going to have to pay for everything myself, including shipping and storage, and assorted “fees.” “Oh, Ash,” my designer friend nonchalantly asked me, “you wouldn’t mind going to pick up the catering would you?” He failed to mention I’d also be picking up the bill. I was furious at myself for being sucked into this game, but when showtime rolled around, I put on my happy, confident face and went out to meet the fans.
I didn’t sell a thing—I didn’t even like the vacuous people who showed up, mostly for the wine, I guess, which I had also paid for—and when I got back to the hotel, I couldn’t stop crying. Every dime I had made that day had gone to putting on this asshole designer’s event. At one point, a guy from security came upstairs, knocked on my door, and asked if I was okay. “Yes,” I said, and I smiled a lunatic smile. “I’m fine. I’m just crying.”
WHEN YOU MARRY SOMEONE, YOU HAVE TO MARRY THEM EXACTLY AS THEY ARE. YOU CAN’T MARRY THE IDEA OF THE MAN.
I had learned an important lesson. All that glitters is not gold. No one was going to look out for me but myself. I went back to New Orleans, determined to be stronger. I spent endless hours in my little studio, painting away, and more hours in front of my computer, marketing myself. Everything else in my life began to fade away, and I was blindly focused on my success as an artist. Unsurprisingly, this is not the best recipe for making a marriage work.
I was determined to be the world’s best artist, and I wasn’t feeling as excited about becoming the world’s best wife. All I wanted to do was paint, and get my art out into the world. Deep in my heart, I knew this marriage was over, but I wasn’t ready to give up on love.
In the lifecycle of an entrepreneur, there are ups and downs; there are failures and successes. You don’t give up on your career because of one business failure, and you don’t give up on love because you get into the wrong relationship. You keep pushing forward, no matter what. And I’m lucky I did, because the end of this tunnel was the light of my life—I just didn’t know it yet.
I was determined to be the world’s best artist, and I wasn’t feeling as excited about becoming the world’s best wife.
The following week, when my husband left for work, I went to pick up the U-Haul I’d reserved, returned to the house, packed up my worldly possessions, and went to visit friends in Birmingham, Alabama, just in time for a Josh Rouse concert, and I never looked back.
7
When You Know, You Know
IT WAS AN EASY DIVORCE. I gave him back the diamond. All I wanted was my freedom so I could focus on my art. If I wanted another diamond, I figured I’d buy one for myself . . . eventually. Lord knows a diamond ain’t worth getting married for.
I spent four or five days in Birmingham, then I went back to New Orleans and stayed with a friend until I could find a place to live. I still had my little studio, so I painted every day, but here’s the real shit-kicker: My friend had a brother I’d never met, a photographer, going through a divorce, and he was living in her little guesthouse. I really don’t know how to explain this part of my story, except that great magic and unexplainable wonder can happen on any damn day. And the day I met my friend’s brother in the guesthouse? That was the day that I met the love of my life.
I mean, the guy was handsome, but I’m not that shallow. It’s more like I had a chemical reaction to his presence, and I could feel my hormones pinballing around like crazy, leaving me weak and lightheaded and, okay, horny. That’s when I finally understood all those National Geographic specials I’d seen as a child, where the lions see each other and go completely nuts, and they fuck like college kids on spring break, because it’s all about procreating. I wasn’t sure I wanted children, mind you, but my body was telling me I should go through the motions.
If I wanted another diamond, I figured I’d buy one for myself . . . eventually. Lord knows a diamond ain’t worth getting married for.
Of course, being a Southern lady, I didn’t want to rush into anything, and I was able to exercise a modicum of self-control. But a few nights later, still smitten and hormonal as all fuck, I went outside, sat on the stoop, looked up at the heavens, and said, “Universe, give me a sign.” At that precise moment, I saw the biggest shooting star I’d ever seen in my life, so I walked over to the guesthouse, up the steps, and laid it on him, and a week later we were living together. The same powerful feeling I had in my gut that told me that my first marriage was over was telling me this time it was right.
That was ten years ago, and Michael is still my man. And we’re idiotically happy.
Things moved pretty quickly. Hey, when you know, you know, right? But, my divorce wasn’t even final and my dad was a little concerned. “What do you mean you’ve already met somebody else?” I assured my dad we were fine. We were like a lesbian couple: One week into our relationship, and we were re
ady to pack up the U-Haul and spend the rest of our lives together.
Michael and I, it is true love. And it taught me a valuable lesson. When I was younger, looking for “Mr. Right,” I was filled with angst. I’d meet guys, but nothing ever felt quite right. Then I found Michael, and I knew immediately that this was the person I was meant to be with, and that we were going to have an amazing life together, and instead of angst, I was filled with energy and hope. My life was finally coming together, and fueled by the confidence that came with my new relationship, my art really took on another dimension.
I’d been raised to look for a man to take care of me. A guy who would pay the bills, buy me a car, get me a first-class seat on the airplane. I had never wanted that, though; I had always assumed that I would take care of myself. And with Michael, I finally understood it. We were going to take care of each other. We were together for the right reasons. Not money, not luxury, not social climbing . . . love!
Yeah, I know—I get it. I sound like one of those sappy greeting cards you find at Walgreens. You Complete Me. (Or was that a Julia Roberts movie?) But it’s true. I’m a modern woman. I can take care of my own damn self.
Michael and I are a team. Behind every woman is an even better man. He wants me to be happy, and he wants me to be fulfilled in my work. He’s good with a hammer and helps me around the gallery. He photographs my art. And sometimes in the middle of the day, when I’m lost in my work, he’ll show up with an incredible homemade lunch. And you know what? Sometimes I cry. Not just because the lunch is so good, which it is, but because he makes it all right for me not to be strong all the time. With Michael by my side, I don’t have to pretend I’m some kind of superwoman.
You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy Page 3
