#5 A Heartfelt but Failed Art Purchase
What Began with Emotion, But Looking Back…
In my last blog post, I said that art should have an emotional connection. Without that, collecting a piece feels meaningless to me.
But even when a purchase starts with deep emotion, there are times I look back and wonder—why did I buy this?
It’s almost like the way I sometimes collect an artist’s work without asking myself many questions—just buying, simply because it’s theirs.
A Choice That Didn’t Match the Artist’s Signature Style
Take this one painting, for example. I bought a size 10 canvas by artist Jang Hyun-joo. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t really capture her most recognizable signature style.
Jang Hyun-joo
Photo by ©Christine Bae
My first encounter with her work was a large, size 80 piece titled In Between. That painting moved me so deeply that, from that moment on, I was smitten with almost everything she created.
Jang Hyun-joo In Between
Photo by ©Christine Bae
“I’ll Take It.” A Half-Second Decision
When I was invited to her solo exhibition, I felt bad about leaving empty-handed. That’s when I noticed the smallest piece hanging on the wall.
Well—if I’m honest—it wasn’t that it “caught my eye” so much as it was the only one I could actually afford.
As a struggling painter myself, I’m not in a position to spend freely. I barely glanced at the piece—maybe half a second—and told the gallery owner:
"I’ll take it."
Years Later…
That painting still hangs on the wall next to my desk. Every time I check the clock, I see it.
And every time, I think:
"I wish I could exchange it for something else."
At her most recent exhibition, I saw a brand-new ink-style work I absolutely loved. But I couldn’t buy it—my budget just wouldn’t allow it. Compared to that new piece, the small painting I own still doesn’t resonate with me on a deep level.
Would Asking to Exchange Be Rude?
Lately, I’ve caught myself thinking:
"Could I ask the gallery to exchange the one I bought for this new ink-style piece?"
Part of me worries that such a request would be rude—especially since I bought it out of emotion. But my feelings were still genuine. I still support her world as an artist.
Still… I probably won’t ask. When I think about it more, it does feel like crossing a line.
This is the kind of piece I’d love to own from her new works.
Jang Hyun-jo _seed62 _Color on Korean Paper_92×65cm_2025
Image Source: Courtesy of neolook.com
So… Why Did I Buy It Back Then?
Someone might say, “You didn’t have to buy anything.”
But as I wrote in my earlier post, I truly wanted to support her in whatever way I could.
Most galleries are commercial. If a solo show doesn’t result in sales, the artist may not get another chance to exhibit there. As the artist herself once told me:
"If nothing sells, I feel bad for the gallery owner. That’s why I make smaller pieces too."
One purchase could mean the difference between an artist getting another show—or not.
Two Meanings of a “Failed Purchase”
This experience gave the phrase failed purchase two meanings for me:
1.Buying blindly out of emotion, without considering the quality or alignment with the artist’s signature style.
2.Loving the work, but ending up with something that has little to no financial value—especially from a professional art collector’s perspective.
Even the artist herself once advised me, “Buy works from well-known, marketable artists—not mine.”
Not everything that starts with emotion ends with a happy result. Just like in love—not every love story ends well.
I don't know when that “ending” will be, but for now, that’s how it feels. As I mentioned in my previous post (link), even when I buy a piece simply because I love it, it often has little to no financial value from a professional collector’s perspective.
Is a Love-Based Choice Really a Failure?
But here's the thing. I’m still not sure. If I chose something out of love and it never brought me money—does that automatically mean I failed?
When I was younger, a friend of mine once told me:
"You’re so naïve. Marriage isn’t about love—it’s business."
That was her response when I said marriage, of course, should be based on love.
She married a man who could give her wealth and status, and to this day, they’re doing well. At least they’re still married. It may not have started with love, but it seems to have ended just fine—perhaps that’s success in its own way.
It seems to be an example that even if something doesn’t start with love, as long as you keep your objectivity, it can still lead to a successful outcome.
When There’s Emotion But No Outcome
Here’s why I feel a little defensive when people call it a failure:
I’ve only owned the piece for six years.
I probably have at least thirty more years to live.
And nobody knows what the world will look like in ten years.
So please—just say “there’s no outcome yet” instead of “failure.”
Even saying “there’s no result” feels unfair to me.
Because really—are those years of love, excitement, and joy worth nothing?
Is owning a work I love only about its price tag later?
The moment I first encountered that piece, the moment I fell in love with it, the hours I spent excitedly searching for it, eager to bring it home, the moments when joy welled up inside me—were all those experiences truly worth nothing?
Art Collecting: For Love or For Profit?
I’ve never made money from collecting art, so I don’t think I’m in any position to give you advice. That friend of mine—the one who married the wealthy man and, at the very least, hasn’t divorced him yet—might be wiser than I am. If it were her, she would probably tell you this:
“Everyone! They say love makes you blind, right? But even if you fall in love, keep your objectivity. A man’s flaws are just flaws. And the biggest flaw? Having no money.”
Which path have you chosen?
-Have you poured your heart into life, only to have it end in what others might call “failure”?
-Or have you lived without much passion, yet still found yourself living a life you’re satisfied with?
-What was your own “failed purchase,” and why do you see it that way?
Share your thoughts in the comments below. I’ll send postcards to the first five people who reply.
Leave your comment, then email me your address.
You can see the postcards here-
they’re made from my own paintings.
In the End: My Love Was Never in Vain
Art exists for humans.
There are days when what I once believed to be art suddenly feels meaningless.
But just because a moment loses its magic doesn’t mean it was a lie.
Just as the moment I once believed in wasn’t a lie, I don’t think we can say our life isn’t ours simply because it doesn’t always stir our hearts.
Even if it looks like there’s “no result” now, the journey itself can still be an artistic experience.
I’m an unknown painter. I hope that when I look back someday, I can say—it was love then, and it’s love now.
That my love was never in vain.
In my next post, I’ll share the story of the very first piece I ever collected—the one that truly moved my heart—and the moment I first discovered her paintings.
Author: Christine Bae
Who is Christine Bae?
I’ve been working as a full-time artist for seven years now.
As a professional painter with a passion for collecting great artwork, I’m excited to connect with people who share that same appreciation.
I don’t sell originals online, but I do offer art prints as a way to share my work more widely.
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Originally published at Christinebae.com
This article was written by Christine Bae.
Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited. All copyrights belong to Christine Bae.
Copyright © Christine Bae.
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