The art born in the shadows: The secret of artists’ residencies
The slanting morning light caresses the white walls of a studio tucked away in the heart of the Cévennes. On a weathered oak table, a series of still-damp watercolors wait to be signed. Their creator, a young painter from Lyon, watches with a mix of apprehension and excitement as visitors wander between the easels. This is not a gallery, nor a contemporary art fair, but the final day of a residency where, for three months, she has worked under no pressure other than to create. And now, these strangers—collectors, art lovers, the simply curious—pause before her canvases, ask questions, murmur prices. One of them, a man in tortoiseshell glasses, already holds out his business card. "I’ll be back tomorrow with a check," he says simply.
By Artedusa
••10 min read
That’s how, one autumn morning, a work of art finds its first owner. Not in a glitzy auction house, nor through the hushed corridors of a Parisian gallery, but in the intimacy of a place where art is still being made. Artists’ residencies, these often-overlooked creative laboratories, have become prime hunting grounds for those who see in them more than just a necessary step in a visual artist’s career. They offer far more than access to artworks: an immersion in the creative process, an encounter with the artist in their element, and sometimes, the chance to acquire a piece that, years later, will become a milestone in art history.
When the studio becomes a gallery
There was a time when artists’ residencies were nothing more than refuges, havens of peace where one came to recharge far from the hustle of cities. The earliest models, like the MacDowell Colony founded in 1907 in the United States or the Cité internationale des arts in Paris in the 1960s, were designed as sanctuaries. People came to work, full stop. Sales, if they happened at all, were discreet, almost clandestine. Yet as early as the 1930s, a place like Black Mountain College in North Carolina had already grasped the value of blending creation and exhibition. Students there sold their work to passing visitors, turning the studio into a kind of ephemeral gallery. Today, this practice has become widespread, but it has retained something of its original essence: the idea that art is discovered where it is born, in its rawest, most authentic form.
Take Skowhegan, that legendary residency in Maine where artists like Kara Walker and Julie Mehretu have stayed. Every year, at the end of summer, the doors open for a weekend of "open studios." Collectors flock in, not to admire polished, framed works, but to enter the workspaces, talk with the artists, and sometimes, fall under the spell of a sketch or a sculpture still in progress. "What has always fascinated me about Skowhegan is this sense of stealing a moment of creation," confesses a New York gallerist. "You buy a work, but also the memory of the studio, the light filtering through the windows that day, the conversation you had with the artist. It’s so much more than a transaction."
The invisible market of works in the making
What unfolds in these residencies goes far beyond the simple act of purchase. It is a parallel market, almost clandestine, where the rules differ from those of traditional galleries. Here, no posted prices, no sophisticated marketing strategies, no polished speeches about an artist’s market value. Just the work, the artist, and you. "In a gallery, they sell you a story, a trajectory, a promise of appreciation," explains a Parisian collector. "In a residency, they sell you an encounter. And sometimes, that encounter changes everything."
The numbers speak for themselves. A 2022 study by the Res Artis network, which brings together over 700 residencies worldwide, reveals that nearly 40% of artists sell at least one work during their stay. Some, like Njideka Akunyili Crosby, saw their careers take off after being spotted in residencies. Others, like Theaster Gates, have turned these spaces into veritable economic laboratories, where sales fund much broader social projects. "When I bought my first work by Gates at Dorchester Projects, I didn’t know I was contributing to the renovation of an entire Chicago neighborhood," says an art lover. "It was more than a purchase: it was an investment in a vision."
Yet this market remains largely unknown. Few people realize, for example, that some residencies take a commission on sales—sometimes up to 30%, as at Skowhegan, which has sparked controversy among artists. Others, like the Cité internationale des arts in Paris, operate without intermediaries, leaving the artist and buyer to negotiate directly. "It’s a more transparent system, but also riskier," notes a museum curator. "You buy a work without knowing if it will gain value. But that’s also what makes the experience so exciting."
These works that tell a story
What distinguishes a work bought in a residency is often its grounding in a place, an era, an atmosphere. Unlike pieces produced in series for galleries, these carry within them the traces of their gestation. Joan Mitchell, who stayed several times at Yaddo in the 1950s, painted some of her most famous canvases there. Her vibrant abstract landscapes still seem imbued with the crisp air of the Adirondacks, the surrounding forests, the shifting light of autumn. "When you look at a Mitchell painting done at Yaddo, you don’t just see a work, you see a place," explains an art historian. "It’s as if the studio had left its imprint on the canvas."
This narrative dimension is what attracts more and more collectors. "I don’t collect works, I collect stories," confesses a contemporary art enthusiast. "And what’s more captivating than the story of a canvas born in the isolation of a residency, far from the pressures of the market?" Some pieces thus become unique testimonies, like the drawings Tacita Dean made during her stay at the Dia Art Foundation, where she captured the desert landscapes of the American West with almost cinematic precision. Others, like Theaster Gates’ ceramics, bear the traces of the hands that shaped them, the conversations that inspired them, the lives that crossed paths with them.
But beware: not all works are equal. "You have to know how to distinguish a piece conceived for the residency from a work churned out to please collectors," warns a gallerist. "Some artists, under sales pressure, end up producing less ambitious, more marketable work. That’s a trap to avoid." Hence the importance of knowing the artist well, their journey, and above all, their intention. "A residency is a moment of freedom. If the artist uses it to explore, experiment, take risks, then the work will have far greater value than a mere decorative object."
The ritual of open studios: when art reveals itself
Imagine this: a Saturday afternoon, you enter a wooden building lost in the woods. The studio doors are wide open, and the air is filled with the scent of oil paint, wax, and coffee. Conversations fly in English, French, Mandarin. Here, a sculptor explains his technique to a group of visitors; there, a photographer shows her contact sheets to a collector. Welcome to the world of open studios, those magical moments when residencies open their doors to the public.
"It’s a bit like witnessing the birth of a work," confides a regular at these events. "You see fresh canvases, half-finished sculptures, sketchbooks spread out on tables. It’s raw, it’s alive, it’s thrilling." At Skowhegan, these days have become an institution. Artists prepare their spaces as if setting up an exhibition, but with one key difference: nothing is set in stone. The works can still evolve, prices aren’t carved in marble, and discussions with visitors can influence the ongoing work.
For collectors, it’s the perfect opportunity to unearth gems. "I bought a small watercolor from an unknown artist at an open studio in Banff," recounts a Canadian art lover. "Today, he’s exhibited at MoMA, and that watercolor is worth twenty times what I paid." But beware: these events also attract bargain hunters ready to haggle fiercely. "Some visitors arrive thinking they can get everything for next to nothing," sighs an artist. "But a residency isn’t a flea market. The works have value, and so do the artists."
The dilemma of authenticity: buying a work or a piece of history?
Buying a work in a residency often means choosing between two logics: that of the collector, who seeks a piece for its beauty or investment potential, and that of the patron, who wants to support an artist and their creative process. "When I buy a work in a residency, I never really know what I’m looking for," admits a Parisian collector. "Do I want a beautiful piece for my living room? Or do I want to participate, in my own small way, in an artist’s journey?"
This ambiguity lies at the heart of the experience. Some residencies, like Black Rock Senegal, play the card of social engagement. Works sold on site fund educational programs, workshops for young local artists, community projects. Others, like SuperRare’s NFT residencies, bet on speculation, with digital works that can gain—or lose—value in a matter of hours. "The art market has always been a mix of passion and calculation," notes a specialized economist. "But with residencies, the human dimension takes precedence over everything else. You buy a work, but also a relationship, a story, an adventure."
Yet this emotional dimension can also be a trap. "Some collectors buy works out of sympathy for the artist, without asking whether the piece has real artistic value," explains a gallerist. "As a result, they end up with works they don’t really like, or that will never gain value." Hence the importance of keeping a cool head, even when the heart races. "A residency is a place of seduction. Artists are often charming, the places inspiring, the atmosphere enchanting. But you have to resist the temptation of an impulsive purchase."
The future of residencies: between tradition and revolution
While artists’ residencies have long been havens of tranquility, they are now undergoing rapid transformation. The pandemic accelerated the digitalization of open studios, with online events allowing collectors worldwide to buy works without leaving their living rooms. "In 2020, we organized our first virtual open studio," recounts Skowhegan’s director. "Sales skyrocketed. People who would never have made the trip to Maine bought works. It was a revolution."
But this digital shift also raises questions. "How do you recreate, online, the emotion of meeting an artist?" wonders a curator. "How do you preserve the intimacy that makes residencies so special?" Some platforms, like online art platforms, are trying to meet these challenges with 3D virtual tours, video chats with artists, and digital certificates of authenticity. Others, like NFT residencies, push the logic even further, turning art into a speculative asset.
Yet despite these innovations, the heart of residencies remains the same: a place where art is created, shown, and sometimes sold. "What will never change is this alchemy between artist and buyer," believes a collector. "Whether in a wooden studio in Maine or on an online platform, what matters is that spark when a work speaks to you. And no technology can ever replace that."
So the next time you hear about an artists’ residency, don’t just think of it as a place of creation. Imagine instead an invisible market, an ephemeral gallery, a laboratory where the destinies of some of the most fascinating works of our time are played out. And who knows? Maybe you too will find that piece that will change your relationship with art. "Because buying a work in a residency isn’t just about acquiring an object," concludes a gallerist. "It’s about entering a story. And sometimes, it’s the story that chooses you."