When I was at Wimbledon School of Art in the late 1980s, the message was clear: just get on with it. There was no business training. No guidance on how to build a career. You made the work, found a studio, scraped together a show if you could, and hoped someone noticed. Unless you were born into money or had connections in the art world, you became the struggling artist in the garret. That wasn’t just a romantic idea, it was the reality for many of us.
There was no internet.
No Instagram.
No websites.
Just a handful of brick-and-mortar galleries and a long list of hopeful artists, all trying to get a foot in the door.
Now, nearly forty years later, everything looks different.
The internet has transformed how we share work. There are digital platforms, newsletters, online galleries, business coaches, arts advisors, consultants, and far more opportunities than we ever had back then.
It’s loud and crowded. But it’s also more accessible. You don’t have to wait to be chosen anymore. You can show your work, build your own audience, and find new ways to connect.
As a 57-year-old artist, I’ve had to learn this digital world from the ground up. And honestly, it’s not always easy. It can feel like I’m playing catch-up with younger artists who move more fluently through online spaces. But I’ve also learned that depth still matters. That relationships, time, and steady commitment make a difference.
The long years in the studio, the conversations with curators, collectors, arts advisors and consultants. The slow growth of a practice.
All of it builds something real.
While I’m grateful for the online community I’ve built, I still deeply value the role of galleries and curators. These are the people who take the time to place work with care, who understand how to frame it within new contexts and introduce it to fresh audiences. That kind of support is both rare and essential.
At the same time, I’ve been watching as established galleries in Los Angeles, London, and New York begin to close. Blum, Marlborough, Vitrine. These are not small or emerging spaces. They’re long-standing institutions, now stepping back and rethinking how they operate. The impact of these closures reaches far beyond the gallery walls. It touches artists, curators, consultants, and the wider network that holds the art world together.
I’ve spoken with artists who are still waiting to be paid for exhibitions held over a year ago -with little chance of receiving anything now due to bankruptcy. It’s a sobering reminder of just how vulnerable even the most visible parts of the art world can be.
All of this points to a broader shift. The system is in flux. Which makes it more important than ever to find new, thoughtful, and more flexible ways to share and support artists and their work.
What remains constant, through all the change, is the work itself. Without the artist, there is no artwork. And there is something steadying in the act of simply showing up; in making something honest, and trusting it will find its place.