A Bridge Between Making Art and Selling It
By Sue Pendleton, Founder
Selling art feel so much harder than making it
For a lot of artists, making the work is not the hardest part. Selling it is.
Not always because we do not know how.
Not always because there is no audience.
Not always because the work is not good enough.
Sometimes it is because selling our art can feel uncomfortably close to selling a piece of ourselves. That may sound dramatic, but I don’t think it is.
When we paint, draw, sculpt, photograph, or make anything from a deeply personal place, our essence is in it. Our heart. Our memories. Our instincts. Our point of view. Our love of certain subjects. The things we cannot stop noticing. The places we return to. The stories we carry.
So when it comes time to “sell,” it can feel less like offering an object and more like standing on a corner hawking something tender. That is a hard feeling to push through. And yet, many of us also know another truth: our work deserves a life outside the studio. I feel that very much right now.
I have paintings in my studio that deserve more than leaning against a wall, stacked beside one another, quietly taking up space while I wonder how, exactly, I am supposed to move them into the world.
I know I should be selling them more overtly. But lately, I have been realizing that maybe the answer is not becoming harder, louder, or more “sales-y.” Maybe the answer is finding a buffer.
Pearl, and the ease of loving what we love
May Day is the birthday of our old dog, Pearl. She was a golden retriever, and for most of our children’s childhood, she was simply part of the fabric of family life. She was the best kind of dog: easygoing, happy to see everyone, always up for affection but never demanding it. We adored her. It’s been almost 5 years since she’s been gone, but I still feel a tug at the heartstrings every May 1st.
Thinking about Pearl has reminded me of something very simple and very useful: The love of our pets is almost universal. People light up when they talk about them. We tell stories easily. Laugh. Soften. Remember. We can connect with strangers almost instantly around the subject of a beloved animal.
And as I sat with that, I realized that pets may offer something else, too. They may offer artists a buffer between making art and selling it.
Why pet paintings feel different
Over the years, I have experienced this from both sides.
When our beloved cat, Tico, died, my husband and I commissioned an artist we love to paint her. We already owned some of her work, but asking her to paint Tico felt different. We were not simply buying a painting. We were honoring someone we loved.
I have also painted a number of pets for people close to me.
My mom’s dog, Dobbie, shortly before he died.
Then her dog Bella, whom she had loved before Dobbie.
My brother’s cat, Ziggy.
My good friend’s dog, Bonnie.
Our current dog, Teddy.
Our former cat, Bandit.
I have loved painting these animals because they mean so much to the people I love. And because they mean so much to me, too.
That is what feels important here.
When the subject is a beloved pet, the conversation shifts.
It is no longer only about art.
It is about love.
Memory.
Personality.
Joy.
Loss.
Companionship.
Story.
That makes the connection easy.
And when the connection is easy, the selling feels easier too.
Maybe the problem is not selling. Maybe it is the way we think we are supposed to sell.
I think many artists imagine that selling means some version of standing under a spotlight saying:
Look at my work.
Buy my work.
Here is why my work is worth it.
And for some people, maybe that comes naturally. But for many of us, it does not. Because the work is so personal, direct selling can feel like direct exposure. If someone is not interested, it can feel less like a customer passing on a product and more like a rejection of something that came from our inner life. That’s a heavy thing to carry.
But what I am beginning to understand is that connection changes the emotional equation.
When I talk about why I love the beach, for example, I am not “selling a seascape.”
I am talking about memory.
Atmosphere.
Peace.
Longing.
The feeling of standing in front of something vast and familiar.
The places I return to again and again in my own mind.
Then I can share the paintings that grew out of that love.
If someone sees themselves in it too, that feels magical.
And if they do not, we can still share something real. We can still connect over a love of the beach. It does not feel like my painting was rejected. It feels like a conversation happened, and perhaps that conversation was the right beginning, whether it led to a sale or not.
That feels much lighter.
The same is true with pets.
I can share stories about Pearl. About Teddy. About Bandit. About why these animals mattered so much. I can feature the paintings. I can invite people into that love. And if someone wants to talk about commissioning something for their own beloved pet, I can remind them that I do that.
That is selling, yes.
But it feels very different from a hard sell.
Connection is not a trick. It is the bridge.
This is the part that feels important to me. I do not think artists need to manufacture fake stories around their work just to make it easier to market. I think the better question is:
What is already true here?
What do I already genuinely love?
What memory, meaning, or feeling lives inside this painting?
What might someone else recognize in it?
That is not manipulation. That is connection. And I think connection may be the buffer that many artists need. Not because it hides the sale, but because it softens it. It places the work inside a human exchange instead of inside a performance of persuasion. The conversation becomes less about “moving inventory” and more about sharing something meaningful enough that it might resonate.
That is a completely different energy.
The subjects that make this easier
Pets are one obvious example.
But they are not the only ones.
Favorite places.
Houses.
Gardens.
Family recipes.
Vacation memories.
A beloved chair.
A child’s room.
The beach.
A local landmark.
The light in a certain season.
These are all subjects people already carry in their hearts. And when artists begin there, the work has a natural way in. Instead of asking, How do I sell this painting? We might ask:
What does this painting hold?
Why does it matter to me?
Who else might feel that too?
That subtle shift feels enormous.
What this changes for me
Honestly, this lifts a giant weight off my shoulders. Because it gives me a way to think about the paintings in my studio that feels less like “I should be moving these” and more like “I can start sharing what is already true and alive in them.”
That feels possible. Even exciting. It makes me want to feature the work I already have in a way that feels like an invitation, not pressure. Connection, not hawking. Story, not self-promotion.
And perhaps that is the buffer I have been needing. A human bridge between the work and the person who might one day love it.
Maybe that’s where selling begins
I don’t think artists always need to become more aggressive to sell. Sometimes I think we need to become more honest.
More willing to share what we love about the subject.
More open about the emotion or memory inside the work.
More trusting that connection itself can carry some of the burden.
If the right person sees themselves in what we have made, they may want to live with it. And if they do not, the exchange can still hold meaning. That feels like a better place to begin. Not with the hard sell. But with the buffer. With the bridge. With the thing that makes the art feel human before it ever feels transactional.
