Text by Lo Chan Peng

This article is longer than the previous ones. Much longer. In the previous essays of Artist’s Economics, I have written about attention, judgment, compounding, meditation, leverage, and the impact of AI agents on human skill and the boundaries of personality.

I sent one of the essays to a friend of mine. His general response was that he did not agree AI would have any real impact on artists, because AI could never use the kind of complex techniques we use to achieve the same results. “I’ll wait and see,” he said, like a broken record. Haha.

There is something very difficult to explain: most people, even many artists, believe that the ultimate value of art comes from the final result we have poured our blood and soul into — the work itself, and its perfection. Yet it is precisely this obsession with the final result that turns art into decoration on a wall rather than a poem. And what AI replaces is exactly this result-driven logic.

At this point, I gradually came to realize something: artist’s economics cannot ultimately be concerned only with how value is created. It must also deal with how value is seen. Because in the real world, value does not automatically become understood. A work, an idea, a technique, or the spiritual density a person has accumulated over a long period may simply exist in silence if it is not transmitted properly, eventually drowned out by the noise of the age.

That is why today I want to talk about a subject many artists instinctively resist, yet cannot truly avoid: selling. But what I want to discuss is not sales talk or closing techniques, nor how to manipulate another person’s psychology. What I truly want to ask is this: if an artist genuinely believes in their own work, is the essence of selling really “persuading others to believe in you”? Or is it revealing the truth you have already seen, so that the right people may also see it?

I. Selling Does Not Manufacture Demand. It Transmits Truth.

I recently read Naval Ravikant’s thoughts on Sell the Truth, and one idea struck me deeply: truly high-level selling does not mean making something false appear true. It means transmitting a truth you already believe in. This sentence sounds simple, but it is in fact extremely brutal. Because it means the real question is this: do you yourself truly believe what you are saying? If you do not believe it yourself, all selling becomes a performance.

You may use rhetoric and packaging, create a sense of scarcity, or imitate the language of successful brands, but at a deeper level, the other person will sense your inconsistency. Human beings are more sensitive than we imagine. Especially in high-value transactions, what the other person is purchasing is never merely the object being exchanged. It is, in truth, an entire system of trust, risk, future, identity, and value judgment.

Low-level selling relies on manipulation. High-level selling relies on truth. Low-level selling tries to make people believe in a value that did not originally exist. High-level selling reveals an already existing value in a form the other person can understand. This is especially important for artists, because an artwork is not a standardized product. It has no fixed function, no obvious utility, and unlike a phone, a car, or real estate, its value cannot be directly explained through specifications and data. In fact, you do not really need it; your life would not be obstructed without it.

The value of art exists on more complex levels: time, spirit, history, the life condition of the creator, the position of the work within a particular era, and whether it accurately carries a truth that language can never fully express. Therefore, an artist’s act of selling should never be reduced to “promoting a work.” It should be a form of translation — you must translate the underlying truth of the work into a language collectors, curators, galleries, and viewers can understand.

II. Charisma Is Not Performance. It Is the Manifestation of Inner Consistency.

We often assume that charismatic people are those who speak well, socialize easily, and possess a strong stage presence. But I increasingly doubt this definition. Perhaps true charisma is not performed. It is the energy that naturally radiates when a person is highly consistent within. When someone is extremely clear about what they are saying, very clear about why they care, and does not attempt to deceive the other person, their language gains weight. This weight comes from the clarity of conviction.

This is crucial for artists. Because the moment an artist is most powerful is often not when they try to prove how great they are, but the instant they accurately say what they have truly seen. If you speak about technique merely to prove how skillful you are, technique becomes a display. But if you speak about technique because you truly understand how a material, a way of seeing, and a sense of time can redefine the position of the human being in the age of AI, then technique becomes evidence of thought.

If you speak about a work only to make it sell for a higher price, narrative becomes packaging. But if you speak about a work because you truly know how it carries your understanding of humanity, memory, the body, time, death, AI, and existence, then narrative becomes the revelation of truth. True artistic narrative should not add an outer layer to the work; it should illuminate the underlying structure that has always existed within it.

III. The Seller Should Not Become an Operator, but a Translator.

Many people misunderstand selling, thinking it means making another person act according to one’s own will. High-level selling is exactly the opposite. A true seller should not become an operator, but a translator. He should not force another person to accept something. He should understand where they currently stand, understand their fears, risks, limitations, motivations, and decision-making language, and then translate value into a form they can comprehend. The key here is empathy. But empathy is not flattery. It does not mean catering to every emotion of the other person; it means understanding why they cannot immediately see what you see.

This is very real in the art market. Artists often think: “My work is clearly good. Why don’t they understand it?” But perhaps the problem is not that the other person is foolish. The problem may be that you have not yet built a language system clear enough for them to understand why your work matters. When a collector faces a work, the real question is often not simply “Do I like it?” They may also be thinking: Does this artist have long-term potential? Is this work sufficiently important within the artist’s trajectory? Is this price reasonable? Will this artist’s market continue to develop? Will this work still represent an important period in the future? Do my values resonate with this artist’s?

If these questions remain unanswered, then even if the work is strong, the other person may be unable to decide. So an artist’s narrative should reduce the cost of understanding, rather than pile language upon language or create deliberate obscurity. When you can clearly articulate where your work comes from, why it exists, what questions of the era it responds to, and where it stands within your entire creative system, you are helping the other person reduce the risk of judgment. The purpose is to make value understandable.

IV. Do Not Waste Your Life on the Wrong People.

In Naval’s framework, there is another important idea: if the other person does not resonate, leave. This feels harsh to many, because most of us have been trained since childhood to fight for every opportunity, every customer, every possible form of recognition. But in a long-term system, the wrong person is not merely unhelpful. They may even generate negative compound interest.

This is especially important in an artist’s career. The wrong collector may treat you as a supplier of decoration. The wrong gallery may consume your brand position. The wrong platform may place your work in an unsuitable context. The wrong collaboration may sacrifice your long-term upside to solve short-term liquidity pressure. These may appear to be only one transaction, one exhibition, one exposure, but they all enter your brand system. A brand is not who you say you are; it is the trace left by all your choices over time. So sometimes the real key is not what opportunities you seized, but what opportunities you refused. This is also the core of judgment.

If you waste your life on the wrong people, on the surface you are working hard to close a deal; in reality, you are consuming your own attention, dignity, and brand. What truly amplifies you is often not a large number of low-quality transactions, but a small number of high-trust, long-cycle relationships with people who understand your core value. An artist does not need to be liked by everyone. An artist needs the right people, at the right time, to see the right value.

V. The Stag Hunt in the Art Market

When Naval speaks about cooperation, he mentions a classic game theory model: the stag hunt. Put simply, if a group wants to hunt a large animal, they must trust one another and be willing to bear waiting and uncertainty together. But if someone sees a rabbit halfway through and runs after it, the entire team fails.

This model fits the long-term brand construction of an artist, because a truly high-value artistic career cannot be completed by one person alone. It requires artists, galleries, collectors, curators, critics, institutions, and viewers to form a long-term system of trust. But this system is extremely fragile. If a gallery only wants short-term sales, it may ask the artist to rapidly repeat works the market likes. If an artist only wants short-term cash, he may accept collaborations that damage his long-term positioning. If a collector only wants short-term resale, he will not truly participate in building the artist’s long-term value. When everyone runs after the rabbit in front of them, the stag disappears.

And what is this stag? It is long-term brand. It is cultural position. It is historical narrative. It is the value of the work still holding up ten or twenty years from now. It is an artist ultimately being remembered by the era, rather than merely consumed by the market. This requires a small, high-trust system. So an artist must be extremely careful about which system they enter. Some systems amplify you; some consume you. Some bring you closer to yourself; some slowly turn you into another replaceable supplier. This is not a moral question. It is a question of system design. Whatever system you join will shape you.

So you would rather remain in the uncertainty of being unrepresented until you meet someone who truly understands your work, rather than have representation while being treated as merchandise for the wall. That person may appear very late. They may never appear at all. But if your target is a stag rather than a rabbit, you should wait.

VI. Artistic Narrative Is Underlying Truth, Not Packaging.

Back to art itself. I am increasingly certain that artistic narrative is not packaging. Packaging makes something nonexistent appear to exist. Narrative reveals a structure that already exists but has not yet been seen. The two are entirely different. If a work itself lacks sufficient spiritual density, narrative will only feel hollow. But if a work truly carries long periods of seeing, technique, life experience, and an awareness of the age, yet you do not have the ability to articulate it, then it may be misunderstood as merely “realistic” or “technically impressive.”

For me, this is the most important function of writing and artistic narrative. It is not to attach a label to a work so that people can easily place it into a custom-made container. It is to allow the work to move from a single object into a larger cultural system. What a high-level collector purchases is often not a single work. He is purchasing an artist’s long-term and consistent cultural system. This system must be scarce, credible, must possess spiritual continuity, and must allow different works to refer to one another. In other words, what he pays for is not a painting or a decoration for the wall. He is entering a world.

That is why every text an artist writes, every exhibition, every collaboration, and every public statement eventually returns to the same question: are you building a credible world? If the answer is yes, then selling should become an invitation rather than a transaction. The work they purchase becomes a path by which you invite them into the world you have built with your life.

VII. In the Age of AI, Packaging Becomes Cheap. Truth Becomes Expensive.

At this point, we must return to the most important variable of our time: AI. Before AI appeared, packaging still required a certain threshold. You needed copywriting, design, strategy, image-making, and linguistic ability to package something beautifully. But now, these abilities are rapidly becoming cheap. AI can write your artist statement, generate exhibition discourse, design visuals, imitate sophisticated language, and manufacture an atmosphere that appears profound. This means packaging itself will rapidly lose value.

When everyone can use AI to generate beautiful narratives, the truly scarce thing is whether there is real life experience behind the language. The refinement of language has already lost its power. That is why I believe: artists in the age of AI need honesty more than ever. Because dishonest things will become easier and easier to manufacture. Truth will instead become more expensive. This truth does not simply mean saying, “I did not use AI.” Nor does it mean returning to some romantic anti-technology posture.

True truth is this: have you actually lived through what you are speaking about? Have you truly formed a judgment through time that cannot be easily replaced? Have you truly maintained consistency among your works, words, actions, and choices? Are you willing to bear your own position? Are you willing to publicly face the tremor when your own views are overturned by the era? These are the things AI has the hardest time falsifying. Perhaps AI can generate an essay about pain, but it has not lived through the night when a belief was overturned. Perhaps AI can imitate the tone of an artist, but it has not borne the cost of a person staking their life on a single path. Perhaps AI can package certain skills, but it cannot fully package all the mistakes, hesitation, failure, wandering, and rising again that came before a person formed that skill.

So in the age of AI, an artist’s selling should not become more like rhetoric. It should become more like testimony. You are not selling an object. You are bearing witness to how a certain truth once passed through what you saw, and finally became a work.

VIII. The Highest Form of Selling Is Letting the Right People Naturally Approach.

If I gather all of this together: the lowest level of selling is closing. The middle level is persuasion. The higher level is translating value. And the highest level is revealing truth, allowing the right people to naturally approach.

This is my latest understanding of artist’s economics. An artist should not chase everyone, because everyone does not exist. What you truly need to do is build a narrative system that is real enough, consistent enough, and long-term enough, so that those who were meant to encounter you can recognize you. This requires an extremely high degree of initiative: you must create, write, organize your own language, manage your own brand, choose your collaborators, refuse the wrong opportunities, protect your attention, and allow every public output to gradually become part of your long-term cultural system.

You are building a field of gravity. When this field becomes clear enough, the right people will begin to come closer. The reason they approach is simple: because they finally see what you have always seen.

IX. Conclusion: Do Not Sell Works. Sell the Truth You Have Seen.

So what exactly is the selling of art? It is not pleasing the market. It is not catering to collectors. It is not covering emptiness with beautiful language. It is not turning yourself into a more performative businessman. The selling of art is the transmission of truth. You must first truly see something, then carry it through your work, reveal it through language, prove it through action, and make it credible through time.

If all of this holds, then what you ultimately sell is a way of seeing the world, not an object meant to decorate someone’s wall — otherwise the difference between it and wallpaper is only a thin line. In this age of information overload, when AI can rapidly generate all forms of packaging, beautiful language, perfect images, and short-term traffic will flood the world. What is truly scarce is the credibility a person has lived out over time. It is the consistency between the work and the language. It is the feeling that when you speak a certain truth, others can sense it is not a performance. This is the artist’s true moat.

Not everyone will understand you. Nor does everyone need to. What you need to do is let the right people see. And then, let time finish the rest.