Cooperman Jewelry
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Cooperman Jewelry
Cooperman Jewelry

   A metalsmith friend of mine once told me that jewelers and metalsmiths (male jewelers and metalsmiths in particular) compulsively acquire tools and equipment as a way to procrastinate: holding at bay the uncertainties and discomfort of creating , substituting the highs and deeper satisfactions of the making for the short thrill of acquisition . Now, being a healthily compulsive male tool collecting jeweler/ metalsmith myself, I at first bristled at her statement . Upon deeper reflection, however, I saw the validity in what she had said ... with the exception, of course, of the word "male".

   To be sure, I've certainly sat in my studio staring at the bench with my head pressed firmly against a brick wall: no where to turn but dead ends, a tense nail of frustration grinding its way up my spine. My thoughts rapidly descend into a deep well of negativity. "This place is so cluttered; the bench is old and shabby; the studio's a disgusting mess; my career is a disgusting mess ; etc.; etc; etc." And then I've felt my pulse quicken as an answer becomes clear in a single word emerging as if from a fog: BENCH. Why... I'll buy myself a new bench! No, better yet, I'll make myself a new bench; of course first I'll need a new jig saw , a better belt sander and a more accurate drill press. Now we're getting somewhere! All of a sudden a valve turns and a small door swings open through which can flow all that energy that was building up behind the dam of my "metals block". Blessed Relief.

   The trouble is that when the bench is built and the shiny new tools—which I've hunted down at considerable bargains—are put away, more often than not the indecision, along with its attendant frustration and lack of productivity, is still sitting there. The block remains.

   I've been thinking a lot lately about fear, procrastination and missed opportunity. The increase in this volume of reflection is in no doubt due to the recent passage of my fortieth birthday. (I'm a walking cliché.) But I've been watching students, workshop attendees and fellow metalsmiths lately and I've seen some procrastination strategies that, while maybe not my preferred methods, are familiar.

   With all due respect to the compulsive tool collectors and bench builders, there are some subtler barriers that can be erected between the maker and the making. Some people choose to attend workshop after workshop, accumulating a varied array of information, techniques and procedures along with mountains of beautiful handouts. Their class tackle boxes are full of beautifully executed samples; their vocabularies of the various procedures of metalsmithing are impressive, but for some reason they don't string these technical "words" together to make sentences. Don't misunderstand me: many of them could produce wonderful things. Their ideas, when they share them, are challenging, their designs compelling. But something stands between them and the work. Sometimes pieces never leave the safety of their sketchbooks; other times their workboxes are filled w/ wonderful objects frozen in various stages of development, from small packets of components to nearly, but almost never fully, completed pieces.

   I know other jewelers who set the studio space itself between them and their work. One is building the perfect studio, another is perennially trying to rent the ideal space. Something always seems to interfere w/ the process though, some glitch in the permitting process or an unreasonable landlord who refuses to cooperate. Alas, without a proper space in which to work, their innovative ideas never materialize. But one day—with the right space....

   Perhaps an even more destructive form of procrastination occurs with those who make well considered, complete work: truly remarkable pieces that illicit powerful reactions from most people who see them. The tragedy here is that despite all of the positive feedback and their professed desire to pursue a career as a working metalsmith, they don't take the leap of faith necessary to make their desires manifest. They shy away from compliments and discount their work through self-deprecation. Their pieces are given away to friends or sold at venues and at prices that fall way beneath the caliber of the work. This is fine if it gives them what they really desire. The making itself may, in fact, be enough for them (it should be, shouldn't it?) But if they really want to make a go of it, if they truly want to support themselves as jewelers and metalsmiths, is this the road to their goal? What's standing in their way? What's standing in the way of any of us?

   One of the big answers, of course, is obvious: Fear. Fear of failure: What if nobody's interested in my work? Fear of embarrassment: What if they find out what kind of an artist I REALLY am? Fear of the unknown: What if this new direction leads nowhere? Fear of loss: I've had this idea in my mind for so long; dare I risk losing it by trying to actually make it? Fear of what comes next: Well, that's it, no new ideas and I'm all dried up.

   It's tough to leave the relative safety of the sketchpad for the risky business of 3 dimensions. It's safe and easier to sit on the hub of a wheel with decisions and commitments radiating, spoke like, outwards in all directions. Choose one and all other options are negated. Choose none and all possibilities remain open. Quite the Catch-22. I've sat on that hub quite few times and, despite the fact that I know better, I'll probably be climbing right back on it next week., fears whirling 'round my head.

   Maybe in tomorrow's light the solution to that neckpiece will crystallize. Maybe if I could relax with a beer or two the better of those two design choices will leap out. (God forbid I should make the WRONG decision.) Perhaps if I just had a more pleasant environment in which to work these decisions would come easier. I'm not really sure that I want to stick my neck out and enter that annual competition—one from which I've been rejected several times—and subject myself to professional humiliation. And really, it's much more pleasant to sit up here in the office, pecking away on my trusty Mac than being out in the studio beginning the new body of work that's due in California two weeks hence. (Suppose it isn't as good as the last group of pieces?)

   But on a fundamental level I know that safety can sometimes be complacency and that the best work often enters through the door marked DISCOMFORT. If you don't turn the key in the car's ignition your chances of having an accident go way down, but so do your chances of making it 10 miles to a meeting that could change your life. Sometime the fluttering wings of those butterflies in your stomach stir up some wonderful things. You can't make an omelet without first breaking a few eggs. Like they say at the gym: "No pain, no gain." Even clichés have their roots in truth.

©1999 Andy Cooperman

   True story: Early spring 1987. My first official solo custom client after moving to Washington State. The sister of our landlord's wife wanted a wedding ring built in gold, set w/ two small diamonds and a square cut pink sapphire. We met several times, in Seattle and in her suburban town, to discuss drawings—I produced over 20 carefully rendered color sketches—examine stones and approve wax carvings. Having finished the ring, which also involved the making of a rubber mold, I cheerfully drove my 1979 V8 GMC gas lovin' pickup somewhere into the country and delivered the completed piece to my client, who then invited me to the wedding reception where—if I wouldn't mind—she'd really appreciate me tending bar, since I probably wouldn't know that many people any way. Price tag? $250.00

   I told this story to a friend and colleague recently who is trying to establish himself as a goldsmith after recently finishing a university undergraduate degree in jewelry and metalsmithing. My friend is on the horns of a dilemma: to work for another metalsmith producing their line of jewelry or to take a low paying grunt type of job in the commercial jewelry industry where he would learn through doing or maybe to work at a non related job, for a higher wage, buy a home, sock some cash away and pursue his passion in the off time.

   Tough decision, one that I suppose depends to a large part on how much he really wants to be a successful jeweler or metalsmith, and just how he defines those terms. Working for another artist might allow you to gain speed and proficiency at, say, soldering, fabrication, setting and finishing. It's inarguably a great way to gain an education in production methods, gallery communications and the operation of a business in general. Being in another artist's space can be quite positive, can give you some exposure for your own work and allow you to use and discover tools and processes that you had no idea existed. You may even be able to subcontract piecework from your own studio, a situation some find more comfortable. If you have your sights set on establishing yourself as a production jewelry artist, for instance, than working for one can be invaluable. The downside is that the skills you learn may be very specific and the work itself can become repetitive. However, as a friend once reminded me, there's more to be learned from a job than dry technique and sound business practices; working with or for another artist can offer life lessons that cannot be had elsewhere. Watching another artist integrate their work into the rest of their life—especially when the studio demands so much physical and mental energy—and seeing how they conduct themselves in an ethical manner under what can be trying circumstances are object lessons that can truly change your life. It's knowledge that perhaps can only be found in this type of situation.

   Working at the bench in a jewelry store or "trade shop" situation is another deal entirely. You may start at the bottom, often in the polishing room—which is as bad as it sounds. This won't last for ever and with some advancement things can look up and you can gain some real experience in soldering, fabricating, repair, maybe wax carving and casting and eventually setting. You get to try a wide variety of techniques on a vast assortment of jewelry and, although much of it is often mind numbingly banal and simplistically designed, this variety offers myriad opportunities to learn. Learning how to repair jewelry, for instance, is one of those unexpected yet incredibly useful skill sets that applies to situations one can never dream of. You get to sit next to old timers who may be really great people willing to share their tricks and short cuts or paranoid sociopaths who wrap their benches in tin foil because they believe that you're broadcasting thought rays to steal their carefully guarded knowledge. (Even the kindly old timer may not understand "jewelry art" and by the 187th time you've heard the term "artsy-fartsy" you'll be ready to wrap him in tin foil.) This is learning in the trenches. The pay may not be great and the environment nerve wracking, but the potential to learn is huge. This is all about technique and, at times, customer service; things that school may have fallen a bit short on. (Besides, there's often the text book way to do something and the real world way.) It can be humbling. But if you want to be a goldsmith or studio jeweler or want to establish a sound technical vocabulary or gain experience with retail and wholesale clients then this is a great path to choose. You will become fast and you will become good. The drawback here is that the "trade" carries it's own frustrations, the festive holiday season, personality clashes and territoriality being just a few. Perhaps the biggest danger lying along this path is what I've come to call "Imperial Conditioning." Years spent at the bench in a market driven environment may tend to make a metalsmith more cautious and conservative in the design and material choices that they make. This influence can last a long, long time.

   Working at a decently paying job not related to the jewelry industry, buying a house and socking away cash sounds great. Taking care of life's essentials and pursuing your passion in your spare time is sound, adult thinking. But what spare time would that be? You may be one of those renaissance people who can do it all: work all day, drive home, cook dinner, remodel the house, create passionate evenings for the spouse, partner or significant other and build wonderful, thoughtful brooches that comment on late 20 th century angst and the need for ritual and community in modern life. I'm not one of those people. I need to sleep. It's the rare metalsmith that I see who hasn't submerged themselves somehow in the field and is still really good. Technical proficiency and depth of thought are most often achieved by constant exposure to process and to ideas.

   As for me, I viewed every jewelry related job as another brick in the foundation. I steeped myself in the metals world, working days at the bench at a variety of jewelry stores and trade type of shops and working in my own studio nights and weekends, even spending several years making crowns and bridges in a dentist office where I really learned to cast and be comfortable w/ the process. I tried the production route and attempted to market a line of cast sterling jewelry which, wearing a dark blue blazer, I carried in a briefcase from store to store and from booth to booth at gift and wholesale shows. (This led directly to a gallery affiliation and a custom jewelry relationship, both of which lasted for many years.) I sent my slides to calls for entry to juried exhibitions and mailed more slides along with cover letters to countless galleries that caught my eye in the pages of Metalsmith, Ornament and American Craft. I applied for grants and competitions.

   There's many ways to approach your career. But never forget that opportunities come in many guises: a staff position at a gallery, a job in the trade or at a supply house. Along the way, find your particular voice and once you have, generate a cohesive, recognizable body of work. Remember that this is your edge, the one thing that truly sets you apart from the pack. Have good, professional quality images of this work ready to send to whoever asks. (Slide dupe and scanning costs can add up, but it's pretty cheap advertising when you think of it.) Get your name out there. Speak about your work whenever asked to—no venue is too small. Write about your work—you don't have to show it to anyone, but it will aid you in clarifying your vision. Keep your ears open: Ask for feedback from galleries, clients and colleagues and consider it when it's offered; it can be invaluable. Learn to live with the fear of failure and don't let it get in the way. Sometimes you will fail; learn from it and then put it behind you. Always remember to follow through and do something if you've said that you will. Nothing can compete with the sour taste left in the mouth of a client or colleague left hanging. Plow the profits back into the studio for a while if you can. Build up your equipment. Take risks sometimes. Kiss some ass if you have to—you won't have to pucker forever.

   The point of my story: Don't pass up any opportunity. Nothing is too small when you're starting out. You may take it in the shorts a few times and some people are going to walk away with some really great deals. But keep your eyes on the prize. Remember that this is like the stock market: you're in it for the long haul. I have clients now who are third and fourth generation referrals.

   Having a home, a family, a nice car, and a social life are certainly not achievements that mutually exclude a successful career as an artist. The real world has to be dealt with: you have to eat, buy clothes, have fun and enjoy life. But making a commitment to what you want is essential. Those who have a supportive partner are certainly at an advantage. My wife never questioned my commitment of time and emotion or the dedication of funds to the studio. I was very fortunate. For every one it's a matter of choosing priorities. Sometimes you may even have to tend a little bar.

©2006 Andy Cooperman

   Rejection is always an unpleasant experience. Unfortunately it is a fact of life, especially so for those artists and craftspeople who wish to gain exposure and perhaps notoriety by showing their work in a competitive environment. Juried venues such as exhibitions, craft shows and publications attract fresh talent and can raise the competitive bar regarding quality and innovation. And, because it is exclusionary by definition, adding the word "Juried" before any listing on your resume gives it professional weight. So there are many sound reasons that we take the emotional risk of submitting work to a jury. But who gets in and who doesn't in the end boils down to the opinion(s) of that jury. And while nothing can or should change that, things can certainly be done to improve a person's chances.

   There is nothing that will block the path towards "acceptance" more quickly than a poor quality or unintelligible image, be it digital or slide. The goal is to convey as much information about the piece pictured as possible WITHOUT AMBIGUITY OR CONFUSION. Relying on the jurors' having any time or desire to puzzle out what is going in an image will result in an irritated jury indisposed to accepting the entry. They will probably simply move along. It should be clear in the slide what the object is, and the character of the surfaces and materials. (Some materials may be nontraditional, experimental or used in a new way. This is, of course, fine but how the material appears to the eye—its character—is crucial.) If you don't take your work seriously enough to document it well, then there's a good chance that jurors will equate your lack of proper documentation with a lack of professionalism or commitment and in turn may not give it serious consideration. But obtaining quality images of your work does not of necessity mean parting with large amounts of hard earned cash. It is certainly within the grasp of most of us to learn how to shoot images (film or digital) that, while perhaps not quite up to publishing standards, are suitable for jurying.

   Lighting is perhaps the single most important thing to consider. If the piece is under lit or too heavily shadowed it will create confusion. Drama is fine and can actually help to create a powerful impression. That being said, too much of a good thing can get in the way. Avoid slick, magazine advertisement type of composition. Also, too much backlighting can create a silhouetted appearance in the slide that flattens the image and draws the eye towards the periphery.

Consider your background. Is it:

  • distracting?
  • too busy or cluttered?
  • too dark or light?
  • does it bleach out the piece?
  • does it isolate the piece?
  • Does the object need to be recorded in context—that is, does it need to be sited on the body, on a wall or somehow installed?

   As stated above, be sure that the materials are clearly depicted. Yellow gold should appear yellow. Sterling should be silvery white if not patinated but not the glaring white of an overly "hot" image. These hot spots draw the eye and create misleading or distracting focal points. Highly polished reflective surfaces are tough to record with accuracy and clarity. They should never include a fun house mirror reflection of the camera, photographer, light stand or studio wall.

   Label the slide clearly. At the absolute minimum indicate the orientation of the slide with an arrow (or whatever is required in an exhibition prospectus) the artist's name, title of the piece and the type of object. Ideally information detailing materials, techniques, dimensions and year of completion should appear on the slide mount. When the competition is tough and the jury needs to make a cut, this information can make a real difference. If you are including a slide list to accompany the submission, then a clear number corresponding to that list should appear.

   Even with the best possible images work submitted should be appropriate to the theme or character of the venue. Production work conceived and designed to be worn at the office may not be the best choice to submit to an academic exhibition. And edgy, one of a kind pieces featuring controversial subject matter may not be suitable for submission to a church based craft fair.

   Some work comes alive only when held in the hand. It may have some tactile quality or a specific function that is interactive. Think hard about choosing these pieces for submission. Ask yourself whether any functionality will be apparent from within the static confines of a sealed display case or a 2 dimensional published image. If you do choose to submit such a piece, be sure to illustrate anything that is special about its character in detail images.

   Jurying anything is a difficult task and carries with it serious responsibility. Anyone asked to provide their services as a juror or on a panel of jurors should well consider whether they are prepared to make difficult, objective and perhaps even harsh decisions before accepting. That's the juror's side of the equation. The artist or craftsperson must fulfill their side of the bargain by submitting the best possible visuals they can of their strongest work, thoroughly labeled and documented. Do your homework and select an exhibition that you feel suits your work. Assemble a group of images that works well together compositionally and perhaps thematically. And understand that even though rejection is part of the game, you can maximize your chances of making the cut. In a competitive world it's always smart to put your best foot forward.

©2006 Andy Cooperman

   As a jeweler and a metalsmith, I am the son of twin mothers. The world of the academic, studio metalsmith was where I took my first breaths as a metal artist: the place that set my heart beating and taught me to put physical structure to abstract thought. But the world where I learned to take responsibility for what my hands do and my eyes see was another place altogether: the world of the manufacturing jeweler. This is the world of the jewelry store, the place where ladies and gents go to find Tiffany style engagement sets, brushed or hammered signet rings.

   I'd have thought that these two—sometimes contentious—sides of a single coin would by now have come to grips with each other, acknowledging their common ancestry and understanding how intrinsically important one face is to the other. Alas, it appears that this divide—the Great Schism—may still be alive and well. This polarization becomes especially apparent when the perennial art vs. craft debate is raised.

   Some studio goldsmiths and jewelry makers are very specific about what they consider jewelry or hollowware to be. Their opinions on wearability, functionality and choice of materials can be quite conservative—one eye cautiously cast towards the marketplace. I've seen some of these smiths become indignant, offended at the very idea that a visual person would somehow need to explain their work in a written statement; grumbling that the "academics" could justify as art a piece of their own excrement (apologies to Tom Friedman)—given enough space to write. Many of these working jewelers consider themselves to be artists.

   On the other, hand I've at times heard academically trained jewelers and smiths speak with disdain about much of the work found in galleries and craft fairs, dismissing even edgier pieces as conceptually bankrupt and terminally lacking in content. Some even challenge the very right of craft fair art to exist. Among these Artists, Art (with a capital "A") is understood to occupy a rarefied plane, many levels above its pedestrian cousin. It is somehow deeper than Craft, whose inherent tie to technique hamstrings it and renders it Art Lite. We see this in the renaming of museums and schools: their validation of the term "Craft" by removing it from the name of the institution and folding it into the condescending embrace of "Art".

   But all this provincial hubris is, in a real sense, unimportant. I think that what is important to remember is that in the field of jewelry and metalsmithing craft is integral to the success of any piece. (In this case, I define "craft" as the making, or execution of an object.) A piece that is poorly crafted will never be as successful in communicating a theme, concept, commentary, observation or formal investigation as one that is well made.

   Over the years I've admired many objects that I considered to be thoughtfully designed and beautifully rendered. While I may not have found an intellectual reason to continue a dialogue with any one of them, I did return to spend more time and investigate them further. What kept me coming back to these pieces was something overwhelmingly compelling in the very level of the craftsmanship itself: a mystery of precision or the particular perfection of a design element. On the other hand, I've seen conceptually driven, topically oriented or thematically fueled work whose concept or intent really grabbed me but which were so poorly executed that the ideas behind them were never communicated lucidly. I might be intrigued, but I found the technical disconnect was so frustrating that it pushed me away. On pieces conceived around formal issues or some investigation of beauty this technical (craft)/ conceptual (art) disconnect is of huge import.

   If a maker has little interest in building objects that go beyond conventional (classic) ideas of beauty and composition or wishes to explore only formal dynamics then they should make it well and revel in the fineness of what it is they do. It is time wasted to heap a bunch of retroactively generated themes or meanings on to work that is really about fine craftsmanship and thoughtful design. (I am in no way discounting inspiration...) The work simply doesn't need it. And if a smith is driven to make work that is confrontative, challenging or intellectually thematic then for Pete's sake they should take some time and make it right. We may be surprised, delighted and even transformed by their particular insight, but we can't understand what they're writing about if we can't read their scrawl.

   Perhaps if the eternal and overwrought argument about art vs. craft were shelved for a few generations we could get on with things and be happy. This argument is as old as the hills. If you feel somehow marginalized or judged by the "Art World" than either stop reading "Art in America" (or whatever), make work that somehow fits that mold or understand that what we call the objects we make is of little significance: It is the making of it and the connection that people make to it that counts.

   I'll close by saying: People who are driven to make things, make things. They make these things for a variety of reasons, but—if they are excited by what they do, and if they are honest with themselves—they don't spend (read: waste) a lot of time assigning a definition to what it is that they are doing. It would get in the way of the making.

©2004 Andy Cooperman



   The relationship between the gallery, client/ collector and artist is based in part, on communication. As the chain of information concerning an artist's work—type and quality of material, processes used, concept and content, etc.—passes from the artist, through gallery or sales staff and into the ears and eyes of clients and collectors, accuracy of facts may become somewhat distorted. Like the game of "telephone" or "post office", every time information passes from one person to the next it is inadvertently edited.

   When considering the purchase of a piece of art or craftwork, a collector must take many things into account. Does the piece appeal to me? Does it enhance my collection? Is it a significant piece from this particular artist. Is it part of a series, one of several hundred production pieces or a one of a kind artwork with no duplicate in existence? Does the price reflect this? It is the last two questions that concern me here. A simple miscommunication, some misunderstood terminology, or poor semantics can lead to a situation where inaccurate assumptions may be made about the true nature of the work. Terms such as production, limited edition, series and one of a kind have been used in the art and craft world with what seems, at times, to be abandon. Where a piece falls on this spectrum can significantly affect its marketability, collectability and ultimately its price. If a collector believes that they are acquiring a one of a kind piece, is basing their purchase, in part, on that belief and then see what they consider to be an identical piece in another gallery significant problems may arise. Using these terms properly is important. With that in mind I offer these attempts at defining categories:

PRODUCTION

   Production work is produced in unlimited numbers, usually with minimal variations between individual pieces especially as regards design and execution with differences usually occurring in areas such as finish. Pieces are usually built with an eye towards consistency, referencing a master piece or pattern. Amounts produced may be large or small and price point may vary widely. The collectability of production work at the time of its production is dependant on materials, appeal, cultural significance and availability. It is the "bread and butter" staple for many artists.

LIMITED EDITION

   Limited edition work is produced in numbers that are predetermined at the outset and once that number has been reached, it is understood that production will cease. "The mold will be broken." As with production work, the aim is to produce multiples of a single design or thematic interpretation, although pieces may have limited variations and quality. Collectability may rely on where on the arc of production a piece falls. These pieces are often marked w/ an edition identifier such as 1/7. Limited edition work can be seen as analogous to print making.

SERIES

   Series work may be a bit more difficult to pin down. In this case, pieces are connected by theme, design, material or process; variations may range from vast to minuscule. The intent here differs from limited edition and production in that exploration of idea or design is non- fixed and evolving: exploration may be the driving force behind the series itself. Close reproduction is not the aim. While part of a thematic or formal body of work, series pieces need not necessarily exist at the same time or be displayed together. The number of pieces in a series can be open ended.

ONE OF A KIND

   In the truest sense of the phrase, one of a kind work exists as a unique object in both design and spirit. That is, the appearance of each piece should vary enough so that it is recognizable and would not be easily confused with another. There is a perception that—again, independent of material value and historical significance—one of a kind work is valued most by collectors due to its unique nature and the perception that more thought, sweat, research and labor went into each individual piece without the expectation of multiple pay offs.

CUSTOM and COMMISSIONED WORK

   A custom made piece is one that is initiated by the client/ customer and made to specifications arrived at between them and the maker. Significant client input is usually the norm. Commissioned work differs in that the artist or craftsman is "retained" to create a piece for the client but with less strictures and client input. (Whether or not a piece made by an artist with considerable client input—custom—can be considered art is another subject for another essay.) The expectation of custom and commissioned work—especially custom—may be that the piece is truly one of a kind: tailor made to fit only the patron. This may not be an accurate assumption since a custom design is often derived or adapted from an existing piece. In addition, a piece generated by the custom process may be so successful that the maker may decide to replicate it as another "one of a kind" piece (note the ironic quotation marks), part of a series or the base of a production line. These possibilities need to be outlined and discussed at the outset of the project.

   Having delineated these categories, defining a given piece as belonging to any one of them can be tricky business. As in wine tasting, there exist subtle overlaps and shades of gray. A production line may consist of pieces that are very similar but may still contain design variations. Each piece in a series, while conceived in relation to a larger body may truly be one-of-a-kind. Certain pieces created in series may be very close in appearance but to the eye of the creator these differences are pivotal. And in a very real sense, any pieces that are built by the artist's hand are truly one of a kind in that the process itself is imprecise and yields variations. It is really a matter of intent.

   But that intent must be made clear to the gallery, store sales staff, curator, client, customer or collector. Using my work as an example, I'll often conceive a body of work addressing a specific theme or I'll conduct an exploration of a particular form, process or material stretched out over a number of distinct pieces. This is solid series work and I'll define it as such, including the word "series" in the title as in "Ocular Field Series: Saguaro" and "Ocular Field Series: Fragment". Sometimes this exploration can be quite narrow and finely targeted, with just a small, but purposeful, tweaking of elements. Again, I'll define it as a series, including this descriptor in the title.

   So, how different must several related pieces actually be to consider them one of a kind? Don't many of us access a favored visual or material vocabulary and address recurring issues or themes in our work? Isn't that where some of an artist's or craftsman's strength lies—in a recognizable style or approach? And who should be the judge of these differences? Some patrons, clients and art consumers may be able to fully appreciate a particular piece but may find it difficult to articulate the differences in what the maker considers two distinct but outwardly similar pieces. Isn't it true that, in a sense, much of an artist's work from a particular period could be regarded as series, in that there is some physical or conceptual subtext running through the work? This is especially so when an artist works on several pieces—as I do—simultaneously.

   Alas, I have no handy answers, no 7 points of comparison that might designate any given piece series, edition or one of a kind. The only solution lies in communication and education. Being as clear as you can with your gallery or representative about the realities of and ideas behind your work enables them to pass this information along to their clients. Writing down these thoughts is always a good idea. Remember that enlightened clients are good clients. And they can't become enlightened unless they are educated. You begin this process.

© Andy Cooperman 2004