Digital Marketing for Creatives

Alright. So.

I was talking to a painter friend the other day. Brilliant person. Makes these… these haunting landscapes, right? Like if a memory had a smell and the smell was old rain. Gorgeous stuff.

And she’s like, “Andy, I’m posting every day. I’m doing the reels, the TikTok dances with my paintbrushes, the whole… the whole pageant. And nothing. Crickets. Or like, a cousin likes it. It’s demoralizing.”

And I’m looking at her website later, and I get it. I immediately get it. It’s like walking into the world’s most anxious, overstuffed attic. There’s forty years of work on one page. Portraits next to weird clay mugs next to a landscape from 2004. It’s a beautiful, wonderful, overwhelming firehose.

And I realized: her best customer isn’t in that attic. That customer is standing at the door, peeking in, seeing the chaos, and thinking, “Oh, man. I don’t have the energy for this. I’ll just… I’ll just go look at a mattress ad instead.” And they close the door.

We do this. Creatives do this. We think the answer is to make MORE. More work, more posts, more content. Flood the zone! But the real problem isn’t that people don’t see your work. It’s that when they see it, they don’t know what to feel. You’re showing them your diary, your entire internal monologue since 1998, and asking them to pick a favorite sentence. It’s too intimate. It’s too much.

You gotta stop being an archivist of your own anxiety and start being a curator. A curator. Like, with a little blazer and those weird glasses. You’re not running a storage locker. You’re building a room in a museum. And you get to decide what the exhibit is.

The Exhibit, Not The Warehouse.

Think about it. You walk into a gallery, right? They don’t have 300 pieces on one wall. They have a room for “The Blue Period.” They have a room for “Late Works.” It tells a story. It gives you a lane.

Your online shop? That’s your gallery. Stop throwing every single thing you’ve ever made onto the front page. It’s screaming. It’s desperate. It reeks of need. And need is a total turn-off.

Pick three lanes. Just three. For this season. Maybe it’s “Nocturnes.” Maybe it’s “Angry Little Ink Drawings.” Maybe it’s “Things That Look Like My Uncle Gary.” Give it a title that makes you smirk. Now, build that little room. Put 5-7 pieces in there. That’s it. You’re not hiding the rest of your work, you’re giving the overwhelmed person at the door a clear, quiet path to walk down.

The Psychological Jedi Mind Trick (It’s Not a Trick, It’s Mercy)

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you in art school: people are terrified of choosing wrong. They see 150 paintings, all different, and their brain short-circuits. “What if I pick the sad one? What if it doesn’t match my couch? What does this say about me?” And then they bail. It’s called the Paradox of Choice, and it’s why I can’t pick a cereal at the grocery store and have a minor existential crisis in Aisle 3.

By curating, you’re doing the hard work for them. You’re saying, “Hey. I see you’re overwhelmed. Here’s a theme. Here’s a vibe. If you’re into melancholy seascapes, stand here. If you’re into joyful chaos, stand over there.” You’re a friendly docent, not a dumping ground.

And put your most expensive piece first in the collection. The big one. The masterpiece. Yeah. I know it feels arrogant. Do it. That’s your anchor. It sets the value for everything that comes after. Suddenly, the smaller, more affordable piece right below it looks like a steal. It looks accessible. You’re not cheapening your work; you’re building a ladder they can actually climb.

For the Writers in the Back, Who Think This Doesn’t Apply to Them…

Oh, it applies. Your book cover is your painting. Your Amazon page is your gallery wall. If I go to your website and you’ve got a dystopian sci-fi novel next to a cozy cat mystery next to your poetry about your divorce, I’m gone. I’m running. My brain can’t compute who you are.

You need separate rooms in your literary house. Build a page that’s just for your gritty noir. Dark background, moody photos, a shot of whiskey in the promo image. Build another page that’s just for your romantic comedies. Bright, pink, a GIF of a cupcake. Don’t make your readers do the sorting. They won’t. They’ll just assume you’re… confused. And they’ll go find an author who seems to know what they’re doing.

The Weekend Intervention.

I’m not letting you off the hook. This isn’t a theoretical coffee chat. This is an intervention.

1. The Audit: Go to your website right now. Open it on your phone. Don’t think. Just feel. Does it feel like a calm, interesting place you’d want to browse? Or does it feel like your brain feels at 3 AM? Be honest.
2. Build One Room: This weekend, pick one series, one theme, one vibe. Call it something that doesn’t make you want to vomit. “Ethereal Grunge.” “Kitchen Sink Tragedies.” Whatever. Gather 5-7 pieces that belong together. Make a new page just for them. Write three sentences about what binds them together. Not an artist statement. A vibe statement.
3. The Money Shot: Take one of those pieces. Your favorite. Now, don’t just show the painting. Show it over a couch. Don’t just show the book cover. Show it on a coffee table with a mug and a rainy window behind it. Help them see the life that happens around your work. You’re not selling a product; you’re selling a slice of a cooler, more interesting world.

Look. We get into this to communicate. To connect. The portfolio-as-dumpster-fire is the opposite of connection. It’s a monologue. Curation is the start of a dialogue. It’s you saying, “I made this world. Here’s the door. Come on in.”

And once they’re inside, comfortable, understanding the rules of the room… that’s when they take their wallet out. Not because you asked, but because you invited them in, made them a drink, and showed them something beautiful, on purpose.

Now go fix your attic.

---

If you found this post useful, when why not to subscribe to ensure you never miss a post. Pop your email in the box below. No spam, guaranteed.