To Show The Process Is To Destroy The Illusion.

"Be so good they can't ignore you." - Steve Martin

Lately I've been thinking about the awkward business of promoting art. It's one of those subjects that quietly sneaks into my head while I'm trying to think about literally anything else and, inevitably, social media isn't far behind. I recently watched a reel - yes, the irony isn't lost on me - by an artist talking about how burnt out he'd become by the constant performance that social media demands. Once upon a time he'd simply disappear into the studio and paint. Hours would vanish without him noticing. Now those same hours are spent setting up cameras, stopping every few minutes to capture another angle, editing clips, choosing music, writing captions and making sure the algorithm is sufficiently appeased. The art, it seemed, had become a supporting act to the marketing.

I understand the argument in favour of it. Social media undoubtedly helps artists reach people they otherwise never would, but I can't shake the feeling that documenting every stage of the process interrupts the very thing you're trying to create. Art, at least for me, relies on momentum, a kind of quiet immersion where time disappears and thought gives way to instinct. The moment I stop to position a camera, even if it's only to document the process for myself, the spell is broken. Then there's the other thing that bothers me: I don't necessarily want to know how the magician does the trick. Part of the pleasure of encountering a piece of work is wondering how on earth it came to exist. Not because I need the answer, but because I don't.

Perhaps I'm in the minority. These days we're encouraged to share everything. Sketchbooks, failed attempts, discarded ideas, colour tests, camera settings, yada yada... before long the process becomes the product, and sometimes the finished work feels almost incidental. Maybe that's why artist statements have always made me slightly twitchy. I understand why they exist. Galleries want context, curators want a framework and collectors often like the reassurance that there's an intellectual scaffolding holding the work upright. Fair enough, but I work in abstraction, and if I tell you exactly what I was thinking, haven't I already narrowed what you might think? Surely one of the pleasures of abstract art is that it asks almost nothing of the viewer except to look. It doesn't arrive with a right answer tucked into the corner. It invites interpretation, memory, emotion, confusion, or perhaps nothing at all. Left entirely to my own devices, my artist statement would probably read: "Here are some photographs. Have a wander. They might remind you of something, or they might not. Either way, I hope you enjoy them. If you feel compelled to leave a small donation in the hat on your way out, I promise to spend it on a bottle of red and a pack of Gitanes." (As is considered the norm for an impoverished artist)

I feel much the same about concepts. Before anyone reaches for their conceptual pitchforks, I'm not suggesting ideas are unimportant. Every piece of work begins somewhere. There's always a curiosity, a question or an itch that needs scratching. The concept matters. I just don't believe it always needs announcing with a loudspeaker. To me, the concept is the frame rather than the painting. It's the structure the work hangs from, not the thing that deserves centre stage. Ideally, the artwork should be what lingers in someone's mind days later, not the accompanying paragraph explaining why they ought to find it meaningful. Yet contemporary art often seems to work the other way around. Sometimes the concept receives more admiration than the work itself, while the artwork merely proves the idea existed. Perhaps that's simply the world we now inhabit. Attention has become currency. Social media rewards whatever interrupts the endless scroll, and the art world isn't entirely immune. Galleries need stories, collectors buy narratives alongside objects and artists are expected to become photographers, filmmakers, marketers, presenters and content creators, all while somehow finding the time to actually make the work. It's exhausting just writing the list.

Which brings me back to the question I've been quietly wrestling with: how do you market your work without becoming the product yourself? How do you make enough noise for people to discover what you do without spending every waking hour feeding an algorithm that will probably forget you within the hour? I don't particularly want to cultivate a personal brand or perform my life online for strangers. I'm not looking to become an influencer who occasionally makes art. I simply want the photographs to find the people they're meant to find. Perhaps that's hopelessly old fashioned. Perhaps it's naïve, or perhaps there are still enough people who care more about the work than the performance surrounding it. I'm genuinely not sure. What I do know is this: I'd rather spend three hours making a photograph than three hours making a video explaining how I made the photograph. Maybe that's bad marketing. Maybe it's simply where I draw the line.

I'd love to know what you think. Has social media become an unavoidable part of being an artist, or are we slowly giving away the very mystery that makes art worth looking at in the first place?