WHY PRINTS?    By Ara Hagopian

I am often asked: "Why do you sell prints, and not simply your original paintings or drawings?"  I am also asked if my work is computer generated art.

Short answers: I sell prints because they are the ultimate manifestation of my creative process.  And no, my work is not computer generated- every line and every color has come from my pen or brush onto paper or canvas (and sometimes upside-down fiberglass cafeteria trays, see my butterfly image below.)

Understandably it seems, The World Turns Up Its Nose To Prints.  After all, prints are mere copies of pricey original works, right?  Prints fade (actually everything exposed to sunlight fades, the degree to which depends on a variety of factors).  Another general point of view is that prints are for people who can't afford original work.

I am here to change that perception.  With over two hundred works sold and donated, my printmaking philosophy is based on evolving artistic processes, a solid business model, and hundreds of conversations with customers and art aficionados. 

Solid business model= provide what customers will buy

"I love that picture".  Those are the words every artist should hear.  It means the arrangement of the artist's humanity has imprinted on another human being.  It's a fantastic moment to witness.  Yet if someone is moved by a $5,000 canvas, and has to walk away, the magic moment ends.  That is the nature of offering a one-of-a-kind art object.

When a customer experiences a bond with a work, the moment of artwork/eye connection should lead to possession.  Printmaking allows this to occur by at least four measures:  a print can be produced in quantity; it can vary in mat, size, and frame; it can be issued in limited numbers and/or remarqued to uphold its uniqueness; and prints can range across the pricing spectrum.  If a customer loves a work then I want him or her to have it in their living space.  Period.

Prints have been accepted for years, but...

I was once told that prints were not allowed in a particular gallery. Yet that same gallery had several fine scenic photographs on display in a permanent collection.  Why were they allowed?  Photos from a negative are prints.  Why didn't the gallery owner insist on having the Grand Canyon, or pieces of it, dragged into the venue and displayed?  Aren't only originals allowed?

Humor aside, the art world grants us a print corollary: Prints Are OK If We're Talking Photographs.  And the reasoning is valid: photos capture a degree of light and composition that is itself artistic, taking the proverbial Grand Canyon and presenting it under glass in 2-D, exactly as the artist wishes.

The experts will argue that a fine Ansel Adams photograph is quite different from a print made from an original work of art.  I respectfully disagree, and refer back to my Butterfly drawing.  Here it is, as a 5x7 print in a composite wood frame.

Do you want to see the original?  Forget it- the work was destroyed via the instability of the ink and incompatibility of the work surface.  Does the print have some value now?

Maybe yes, maybe no, but it is my experience that the customer buys the artist first and the artwork second.  So the artist is telling you the original work was drawn on a slick piece of fiberglass.  I had bought some cheap, 50-pens-for-seven-bucks color markers, and was simply experimenting with media.  And as I attempted to draw on the glossy white surface, it was clear that the ink was not going to adhere, and any ink that did happen to come to rest was simply washed away if further strokes were placed over it.  It was a great way to destroy pens, but not a great way to make a drawing.

Then I got an idea- if the fiberglass was not going to absorb the inks' water base, then why not let a dehumidifier pull the moisture out?  So as I pushed and shaped the color, I'd periodically stop and bring the soupy mess to my basement where the dehumidifier did its thing.  In this odd fashion I was able to gently mesh and build up color, and after several hours the piece was completed.

But the art was extremely unstable.  Remember there was no bond between the strata (fiberglass) and the medium (cheap water ink).  The ink would lift off if it was touched so I simply took a high resolution picture of it, and the result is the image you see here.  Within ten minutes the original was destroyed.

Purists say the ink on fiberglass could have been preserved.  A true artist would have seen to it, right?  He'd have it mounted in a shadow box to keep it from dust and fingers, and oh yes he'd display it flat to keep the ink from sliding, and yes he'd keep it in near darkness because the inks were the cheap dye variety.  Purists be damned: some things/experiences/scents/words can only exist, can only matter, in their moment, as defined by the parameters existing in that moment.  And somehow the fragility was suitable to topic- the life of an actual butterfly is vibrant but for the grace of wind and season.  And then it is over.

But it was not over for my work.  Not over for my prints.  Make a bit of space, Ansel Adams.

Prints and the revolution

With the art as a Tagged Image File in the digital workplace, I was able view the Butterfly piece without fear of doing harm.  I noticed the right wing was a bit too big for my impression of how I saw the work.  I was able to open the piece in another window, shrink the new file ten percent, select and copy the now-reduced right wing, go back to my original file and paste it in place.  I was then able to mesh the green surrounding areas- again, as an artist, no more, no less- so the viewer would have no evidence of my work.  I was using digital technology in the exact same spirit of organic artistic creation.  When the limitation of the original media failed me, technology was able to continue my process.  As with all my work, I produced the butterfly prints in various sizes and I'd defend the print as "the true artwork"  till death.

That is the art.  Could I have sprayed a fixative to stabilize the original's ink?  Yes.  And that would have changed the sheen and delicacy of the image.

There are additional benefits to printmaking, aside from degrees of digital flexibility.  All my prints are made with archival, pigmented inks, or as professional-grade photographs on Kodak ENDURA paper.  If displayed under glass and out of direct sunlight, my work will last more than your grandkid's lifetime.

And everyone can have one.  Why not?  If you like the work, why not be able to own it?  In the size you want?  Sharing art is the joy of creating. 

If the butterfly story interests you, then it is safe to say that I have similar methodologies for other works as well.  "Enoxx, Season of Four Weathers" was drawn with sixteen colors of ink as four separate pieces, combined into the prize-winning shape as it's known.  There is no original, per se, yet the print exists and thrives.  "Cinetchu-Batrince" needed two pieces of construction paper to fully allow for the fanning its tail, yet the final print betrays none of its tedious physical trials.  The prize-winning "Compassione" is comprised of elements of two failed pen and ink drawings.  "Cayleen" has a faint canvas mesh overlay.  And on and on.

Yes, my prints are my art.  Come to an exhibit and see for yourself.