On Keeping Track of Your Work
Long before a gallery enters the picture, an artist is already in relationship with something that will eventually require care beyond the studio.
That something is the body of the work itself.
In the early days, it is easy to move loosely. Pieces are made, stacked, traded, given away, occasionally sold. The sense of continuity is held in memory, in feeling, in a general awareness of what has been done. For a while, this works well enough.
But over time, the work accumulates.
And at a certain point, memory begins to thin out.
Back in my early years dealing with a gallery, I realized this the hard way. It was not simply a matter of making the work anymore. It became a matter of knowing, precisely, what existed, where it was, and what had happened to it. Watching how things could drift, blur, or be misrepresented, I understood that if I did not build a system for myself, I would eventually lose track of my own output.
So I began to construct one.
What I do now is simple in principle, even if it took years to refine.
Every work I make is photographed.
Every work is given an identifying file name that includes the inventory number, the medium, the size, and my name. The image itself becomes a record. That same image is what I share with galleries for their own inventory and for promotion, so there is no discrepancy between what I have and what they have.
From there, everything is organized into a digital structure.
I maintain a dedicated folder for each gallery. Inside that folder, each delivery of work is placed into its own subfolder, labeled by date. Each of those folders contains the exact inventory that was delivered at that time. Nothing is assumed. Nothing is left to recollection.
If a gallery calls me about a piece from ten or fifteen years ago, I can locate it in less than a minute. I can see what was made just before it, just after it, and whether there are related works that might serve as companions. That level of clarity changes the conversation. It allows me to operate as someone who knows their own archive.
It also prevents confusion.
Alongside this, I maintain a separate record of sales.
Each year has its own SOLD folder. When a piece sells, the file name is updated to include the gallery and the month of sale. Over time, this creates a parallel history of the work as it moves into the world. Not just what was made, but what found its way into someone else’s life, and when.
There are always refinements to be made.
Even now, I notice gaps. For instance, the occasional return of unsold work from a gallery is not always recorded as cleanly as it could be. The solution is straightforward - to mark those works clearly as returned and move them back into a current “available from studio” grouping while keeping a trace of their previous placement. The system evolves as the need becomes visible.
That is part of the process.
Over the years, I also began compiling a chronological catalog of all work produced annually. For a time, I printed these as physical volumes. That practice paused during the pandemic, but the catalog itself continues as a digital manuscript. It serves as a yearly snapshot of the studio’s output, a way of seeing the work not as isolated pieces, but as a continuous unfolding.
More recently, I’ve added a daily journal practice. Every day is accounted for. Not just in terms of finished work, but in terms of attention, direction, and movement. This creates another layer of continuity - one that connects the inner life of the studio with the outward record of what is made.
All of this may sound excessive to some.
And for many artists, it will be.
But if you intend to work with galleries, especially at a distance, this level of organization becomes less of a preference and more of a necessity. The further your work travels from you, the more clearly you must be able to account for it.
Otherwise, small uncertainties begin to accumulate.
A missing piece here. A vague memory there. A question about whether something was sold, returned, or simply misplaced. Over time, these small gaps can become real losses - not only financially, but in terms of your relationship to your own work.
Keeping track of your work is not a bureaucratic task.
It is a form of respect.
It allows you to remain connected to what you have made, even as it moves beyond your immediate reach. It allows you to speak with clarity, to act with confidence, and to maintain continuity across years of production.
In a sense, it is an extension of the studio itself.
The work does not end when the piece is finished.
It continues in how it is held, remembered, and accounted for in the world.
I was explaining this to my brother the other day and he decided to test me. He opened the internet picked one of my artworks at random and asked me about it by just giving me the inventory number. While we were on the phone I quickly pulled up the exact image in my files, described it to him so that he knew it was the same work, I looked at the hundred works made before it in sequence and the hundred works after it and could explain the context of the work in question in great detail. Naturally, he was impressed. Case closed.
I’ll be writing more about this over the summer.