The Cost of Creation: How artist’s relationship with their art changes once they begin to sell it

When a brushstroke moves from a canvas in your bedroom to a wall in a gallery, something shifts. What once was a whispered confession between artist and canvas is now shared with the world — and it comes with a price tag.  

For emerging creators, selling art can be thrilling, intimidating, and sometimes heartbreaking. It can bring validation, connection and even survival, but also challenges the intimacy that made the work personal. 

So, how can artists hold onto the intimacy of their creations when the marketplace demands saleability?  

For Visual Communication Design student Olive Bartlett-Mowatt, art markets revealed how the pulse of commerce can shape an artist’s choices. In 2023, Olive helped launch the Y2K-themed Nostalgia Markets. What began with fashion vendors has since grown to include artists, bringing an exciting expansion.  

But excitement comes with friction. Olive says the market’s younger crowd isn’t always ready to invest in art.  

“We have a lot of people coming through, and artists are pricing their work fairly, but it doesn’t always sell because we just don’t have the right demographic,” they say. 

Monetising their own work has shifted how Olive approaches creativity. What once was simply making something “cool” for enjoyment has turned into thinking about functionality. Olive sells their prints for $15 each at markets and, on average, makes around $150 per market — but this changes depending on traffic at the event. They say they can make as low as $50 and as high as $300 depending on the day.

“If I’m going into creating something, the mindset is: ‘Is this going to sell? Will people like it? Does it have a function?’” 

Monetisation can become a barrier, a weight on Olive’s creativity. “Why am I making it if it’s not going to sell or bring in a profit? Which a lot of it doesn’t anyway.” 

Still, Olive says art as income is a necessity. “It kind of sucks. But it also gives me a bit of drive to create things people will like.” 

They believe many students choose to study Design over Fine Arts because of the perception it’s easier to make money from. “There’s an expectation that Design is more easily monetisable because it’s functional, you know? There’s a very obvious purpose. Whereas with Fine Arts, you have to find its purpose or meaning.” 

For Olive, the key difference between monetising Fine Arts and Design is functionality. Most of their sales come from work that serves a purpose. “You can chuck a piece of art on a T-shirt or a mug, and suddenly it’s not just for the wall — it has another use.”

The pressure to make money from their art shapes Olive’s creative rhythm. Function, saleability and audience are always in the frame, tugging at the edges of creation. 

Fine Arts Master’s student Kaia White believes commercial pressures can tear an artist from their work’s meaning. The personal connection between art and their canvas is key to creating — and money shouldn’t shape that.  

“Art can be really personal, and I think people sometimes pare it back so it’s more saleable,” Kaia explains. “But I don’t think you should compromise what you want to make just to suit other people. There’s a space for both. You can sell your work and still keep it honest.” 

Earlier this year, Kaia sold four paintings at Sanderson Gallery’s emerging artist exhibition for $750 each. After giving the gallery back 30% of her total earnings, Kaia had earnt around $2100 from her work. Displaying her art at this dealer gallery introduced her to pricing and the realities of the commercial world. 

Before this, she thought that selling art for this much was “crazy”, but after talking to some of her lecturers, they explained that a lot of different factors drive up the price. She says, “My lecturers explained it’s actually all the years of study that you also have to take into account in the price.” 

While considerations like size, framing, and materials can domesticate her work and make it more sellable, she stresses that the integrity of the piece always comes first.  

“I think it’s cooler if you don’t change the way you make your art just so people will buy it. That’s what makes you a good artist.”  

Kaia paints with her heart, painting reflections of her whakapapa and Māori identity. For an upcoming exhibition, she plans to incorporate personal taonga into her paintings, which makes decisions about selling her work more complex.  

“The connection to my work is really strong. Using taonga adds another layer of intimacy, so I’ll have to think carefully about whether some pieces are for the public or just for me.”  

Despite this, Kaia still believes that crafting with integrity should remain central to the creative process. She acknowledges that it’s important to make money, but that creativity and commerce shouldn’t be a compromise to suit others.  

“There’s a space for both. You can still sell something you wanted to make in the first place.” 

While making money is more predictable in Design, Kaia says Fine Arts offers opportunities like teaching or gallery work, so artists don’t always have to rely on selling their own creations to make a living. 

For Kaia, maintaining a personal connection between her paintbrush and canvas matters more than commercial success. She shows that in the marketplace, intimacy and authenticity can survive — and sell — if creators stay true to themselves.   

Obviously, when survival isn’t tied to every brushstroke, there’s room to linger in the process, follow curiosity and let joy lead an artist’s creativity. But there’s a privilege to prioritise creativity over money when the rent is due. Suddenly, that intimacy between creator and creation becomes harder to protect. 

The journey from bedroom easel to gallery wall isn’t just a sale, it’s a negotiation between heart and market. But making a living from your art doesn’t have to take away its intimacy. 

Selling doesn’t erase what’s yours. The brushstrokes, colours, stories, even the music you listened to while creating can still hold your voice. What changes is the conversation. It’s no longer whispered secrets between you and the canvas. The conversation grows to include the world.  

Keeping that intimacy means making the art for yourself first. Let your intention guide your brush and meaning move your pen. The closer you stay to why you made it, the more the marketplace becomes a stage for connection rather than a measure of value.  

In the end, the work remains yours. Shared, but never surrendered.