I had no idea there was a Steve Henderson the baseball player until after we launched our art website years ago and I Googled the Norwegian Artist's name, Steve Henderson. Naturally, since we had been online for, oh, say a week or two by that time, the baseball player came up first.

"Who is this man?" I thought. "Does he paint, too?"

As time went by and the Norwegian Artist participated in shows and joined societies and sold paintings and was represented by galleries and showed up in articles, the artist Steve Henderson, the real one from my perspective, began to clamber his way up the search engine pages, and I hadn't given a thought to the baseball guy until we, the Norwegian and I, were walking by a river and the Norwegian picked up a rock and threw it across to the other side (do all men do this? what is it about rocks that impels the average man to pick them up and throw them?)

"I should have been a baseball player," he said with a grin.

"Actually, you sort of are," I replied.

Perhaps the other Steve Henderson, the baseball one, found himself on top of a ladder one day, swathing the living room wall with broad brushstrokes when he turned to his wife (is he married? I don't know), and said,

"I should have been a painter."

"You aren't," she would have replied. "There is only one Steve Henderson, the painter, the Norwegian Artist."

I deliberately entitled this post using a word that I have eliminated from my vocabulary: Should.

Too often we do things not because they are right for our particular situation, or because we are grown ups and can use the words “want to” without sounding like recalcitrant toddlers, but because we have this vague idea that others – who know more than we do – expect certain behavior.

Workshops are great little animals; my own Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson, regularly teaches them, and his students, depending upon why they are there and how they approach the opportunity, move forward in widely divergent fashions.

Some people are serial workshop takers, collecting the names of their numerous instructors like knitters stash yarn. Others are there for the first time, glancing covertly at everyone else’s brushes and paint tubes and specialized plastic art boxes and convincing themselves that they are the only ones there who know absolutely nothing.

The best students, and the ones who leave most satisfied, are confident enough in themselves to realize that everyone does things differently, but humble enough to recognize that there is much good in trying something new. These students are here, not because they feel they ought to be, but because they want to be – they listen with an open mind, ask pointed questions, absorb the answers given to not only their own questions, but to the questions of others, and use the limited workshop time to its full advantage.

They’re taking the workshop because they like the instructor’s work and want to hear more about how he/she accomplishes it.

Should you take a workshop?

Misleading question.

Do you want to?

A friend mentioned to me that someone challenged her to read, within one year, a particularly long and demanding book.

“I didn’t really want to do it,” she confessed. “But the man challenging me is knowledgeable and he was insistent, so I did.”

My first thought was, “Why?” which goes to show why I don’t play well in groups, followed by, “That’s as reasonable as children accepting a dare – to lick the dog’s nose, say – simply because someone confronted them and told them to do so.”

Within art circles, people challenge themselves to do all sorts of odd things – like paint the same tree, every day for three months -- simply because someone who wrote a book did so and instructed readers to do the same.

Why?

I mean, do you really want to paint the same tree, 90 days in succession? With the limited time that you have to pursue painting, is this what you want to do?

If the answer is no with the caveat, “But he’s knowledgeable and he’s insistent that this is how I will grow as an artist,” then reconsider licking the dog’s nose.

The idea of regularly painting over the course of 90 days, so that you can get gently ensconce yourself into the habit of doing so, isn’t such a bad one, and maybe that is one of the things the author is trying to teach. But you can accomplish this by announcing to your people in the room, “For the next 90 days, I will be in the studio from 6 to 8 p.m., painting.”

And then go paint. What you want. How you want. One work every day, or seven days for one work. The very act of doing it regularly (it’s okay to miss a day; don’t get weird) will propel you to the next level, on your terms.

Dare you.

The short answer to this question is that an original painting is one of a kind, and when you purchase an original, you purchase the only one in existence.

Over the years, printing methods have improved phenomenally, and many printed images look quite, quite excellent -- almost as good as the original. 

The keyword is "almost." There is no comparison to an original painting, which catches the light in a unique way because of the texture of the paint on its substrate. It is, indeed, an investment.

Prints Are an Affordable Means to Enjoy Art

That being said, not everyone can afford an original painting, and prints provide a an affordable means of adding art to one's life and walls -- an extremely important matter in a world that is increasingly focused on facts and numbers and the bottom line. Without art, we become spiritless, hard-edged and cynical.

A print, which can be done on all sorts of papers, canvas, and other substrates, using all types of inks and employing different kinds of printers, is a multiple of an original. When you buy a print, you are buying one of many – an unlimited many, in the case of what is called an unlimited or open edition print; or a specific one of many, as in a limited edition run of 50 prints, which means that only 50 prints of a particular painting, in a particular size and on a particular paper or canvas, are created before the artist removes the printed work – again in a particular size on a particular subsurface – from circulation.(To learn more about this, read our article, What Is the Difference Between an Open Edition and Limited Edition Print?)

Because the artist does not need to invest hours and hours of painting time into creating each print, he is able to offer the image at a lower price, opening the opportunity of enjoyment to a wider number of people.

The Snobbery of "Art Investment"

Again, the keyword, or keywords, involve two factors: affordability and the ability to possess and enjoy art. There is a certain snobbery in pseudo art circles that originals are the only way to go, which limits the enjoyment and owning of art to those who have the money to pay the original's price. There is an added snobbery, as well, that the original art needs to be an investment, something that will continually increase in value, so that the owner can add a pride of financial acumen to his or her opinion of themselves. And because this investment generally doesn't involve reasonably priced originals by contemporary representational artists, but rather, overpriced existential abstracts or pop pieces by a limited list of names -- alive or dead, often New York based -- art is squeezed into the province of the very rich.

Owning this type of art becomes a status symbol, much as driving a particular type of car. The primary purpose of art -- to seek and show truth, and to open this world to people, is lost in the world of art investment.

But for the smart person -- the one with enough confidence in him or herself to purchase something simply because they like it and it makes them happy, prints are a very real, very affordable option to add depth, dimension, thoughtfulness, and joy to their lives and interior decor. To learn more about buying artwork and feeling comfortable doing it, check out our article, 5 Super Easy Tips for Choosing the Right Artwork for Your Home.

At Steve Henderson Fine Art, we sell original paintings and commissioned work (this latter being specific, customized paintings created at the request of the client), as well as prints (framed art, canvas, metal, wood, posters) in all formats at Steve Henderson Collections. We also, through Steve Henderson Collections, sell Steve's images on everyday products that people use all the time -- phone cases, coffee mugs, home decor throw pillows, tote bags -- even shower curtains! It's all part of getting art into the lives of real, hardworking, ordinary people -- where it belongs.

When the Norwegian Artist studied art at the university, his professors urged him and all the rest of the students to "find your style, find your subject matter, and stick with that one thing. You need to be known for a certain size of work, a specific color palette, and one kind of subject matter."

When you're 23 and your professors are in their 50s, it doesn't occur to you to ask back,

"But you don't actually show or sell your work yourself. What makes you think that this way of thinking works?"

When Steve became an illustrator, in order to put food on the family table, he quickly discovered that the ability to create wildly divergent subject matter in multiple color palettes embracing a spectrum of styles was not only an advantage to him as an artist -- a great learning curve for increasing your skills -- but also a requirement of the job. Twenty years of this enabled him to do a lot of experimentation and move forward in his understanding of various media and style.

As a fine artist, he enjoys painting representationalism with an impressionistic flair, but he does not insist that every painting be approached, or handled the same way: only thick paint, or only glazing, or only deep shadows, or only strong contrast -- the subject matter, the size of the work, the mood of the piece dictate the other elements involved in bringing the scene that his artist's eyes see to completion on canvas.

"Artists artificially limit themselves by this outdated -- and probably never valid -- notion that they must be 'known' for a specific style or subject matter," Steve says. "They're not selling flash drives. And come to think of it, even flash drives are coming out in different forms -- I saw one shaped like a bird that looked like a toy that a child would get in a fast food meal."

In the back of his mind, Steve has a half-dozen paintings ready to paint when he finishes the one he is presently painting, and the queue includes figurative, seascape, landscape, still life, with the final result being one of these, or none at all but something completely different, the choice being made, basically, by what he feels like doing.

"If an artist does not feel free to experiment," Steve says, "how will he ever grow? How will he ever discover a technique that brings about an effect he has been searching for? Artists are humans, not machines, and the very nature of humans is that we explore, dare, push limits, and create."