The Lonely Painter.

Is it okay to sell or show a painting you got help on?

I get asked this all the time:

“Doug, if you critiqued my painting, can I show it?”

“I did this painting in a workshop… can I sell it?”

My quick answer? Yes. But — with one little asterisk. Ask yourself: How many of the instructor’s fingerprints are on this thing?

A verbal cue? A quick “maybe try more blue there” ….No problem. However, if the instructor grabbed your brush, painted half the face, 3/4 of the body and tweaked the belly button, best sign it "Love, Picasso” and maybe keep that one off Etsy.

Here’s my point.

Painting is usually a solitary gig. Just you in a room, arguing with your canvas, spilling coffee on your reference photo and drinking your paint water. But compare that to other arts:

A band has armies of helpers — sound techs, lighting wizards, guitar tuners, drum techs, vocal coaches. And once you land a record deal, here come the producers, engineers, and record.

Execs (basically professional fun ruiners).

Or take screenwriting. It starts with one lonely writer and a pen. Then the husband reads it: “It’s good, but what’s with the dog? Lose the dog.” You argue. You lose. Poof, dog is gone. The screenplay goes to the movie studio. The editor chimes in: “What this needs is a dog”. Paff…The dog is back. The studio gives the screenplay to Spielberg. He picks it up: Hmmm, nice, but lose the dog.”

Then come the studio execs: “You should have a dog. Dog movies sell.”

By the time the actors, vocal coaches, makeup artists, and stunt doubles show up, that poor little screenplay has been through more hands than a $5 bill at the race track. That’s all okay.

Meanwhile… painters? We’ve got us. Just us. We’re the critics. We're the coach. We’re the cheerleader. We have to be our own boss, yelling “More blue!” and we’re the underpaid worker sighing, “Here’s your blue, sir.” And when it’s going really badly, we even morph into the buyer: “Nobody will ever want this thing.”

Pro tip: Don’t let that buyer-guy in your head. He eats your snacks, drinks all your wine and never buys anything anyway.

And remember — even the “greats” had help.

Leonardo da Vinci & Verrocchio – Leonardo painted an angel in The Baptism of Christ so beautifully that Verrocchio supposedly quit painting. (Talk about a bad day at the office.)

Peter Paul Rubens – Delegated like a champ. Assistants did the horses, drapery, and backgrounds. Rubens painted a face or two, tweaked a chubby nipple or two and — boom — masterpiece.

John Singer Sargent – Started The Fountain, Villa Torlonia, lost steam, and mailed it to his buddy Wilfrid de Glehn, who finished the boring bits. Sargent basically invented “ghost painting.” Did it all the time.

So here’s my advice: build your army. Find the people who’ll nudge you when you’re stuck, roast you when you need roasting, high-five you when you nail it, and tug

you back to earth when your head floats into the clouds. Surround yourself with people who can coach you, no matter what level you’re at. A tiny bit of hands-on never hurts, either.

Find your army. Recruit your crew and keep the brushes swinging.

Your friend in art,

Doug.

Leo’s angel. Painted by his fave student. Extra points for the perspective on the head pizza.

Ruben’s the first “ chubby chaser. “Didn’t touch a brush to the fabric.

Go Sargent. Wish I could get someone to paint the boring parts of my painting.