The Art I Give Away
In 2026 my work is going to leave the studio in a new way.
One of the quiet joys of my life as an artist has been watching my work leave the studio as a gift, not a transaction. Long before there were collectors, inbox inquiries, or neatly itemized inventories, there have always been people and causes I cared about and the instinct to respond with what my hands could make. Many pieces have gone to friends marking a turning point, others to nonprofits trying to move the needle on something that feels impossibly large, but the feeling is always the same: a small, precise offering that says, “You matter to me”
The layered reliefs and generative systems are one side of the story; the other is where the work lands, whose walls it lives on, whose efforts it quietly funds. That’s the part of the journey that still surprises me, the realization that the most meaningful destinations for my art are often the ones where money isn’t the starting point at all, but a byproduct of care, alignment, and shared purpose.
In 2026 I’ve decided to give twenty-six generative, dimensional artworks to nonprofit galas and charity auctions. Not as a marketing hack or a tax strategy, but as a deliberate extension of the work itself: code and paper traveling into rooms where people are raising money to solve problems bigger than any single artwork can touch.
The plan is simple, but the intention behind it feels bigger than a resolution. It’s a shift in how I am thinking about circulation, value, and what it means to be an artist in a networked world.
I can’t do this alone.
If you know of an organization, school, grassroots group, or foundation that would genuinely benefit from an artwork donation for an auction, gala, or fundraiser where a piece like mine could help them inspire hope and raise more, I would be deeply grateful if you’d share this offer with them or help introduce them to me.
https://studio.shawnkemp.art/donation-request
Why Twenty-Six
Twenty-six is a commitment disguised as a number.
It’s modest enough that each piece can be intentional and matched to a specific cause or event, but ambitious enough that it will force me to systematize generosity instead of treating it as a one-off gesture. It means designing the year around a rhythm of giving: scouting causes, talking with organizers, choosing which work goes where.
There’s also something appealingly structural about it. My work starts as code and becomes layered, physical reliefs, cut from mat board, and assembled by hand. Committing to twenty-six donations feels like another kind of generative system: define the rules, then see what unfolds. Where will these pieces end up? Who will live with them? What stories will they carry into those spaces?
I don’t know yet. That’s part of the point.
The Kind of Rooms I Want My Work In
Nonprofit auctions and galas can be chaotic. Some are deeply intentional, with well-curated art programs and thoughtful storytelling. Others treat artists like decoration and art like filler. Part of this year’s project will be learning the difference and choosing carefully.
The rooms I’m aiming for:
Events where the cause is clear and tangible: education, climate, health access, and nourishing food.
Communities that already value art and design, even if they don’t think of themselves as “collectors”.
Spaces where the organizers are willing to present the work with care around good lighting, clear labeling, a bit of story next to the piece.
I’m not interested in having my work stacked on a folding table in a hallway. The generosity is real, but so is the standard. The piece, the cause, and the presentation all matter. When it’s done well, a single artwork can become a quiet focal point in the room, a conversation starter to build a bridge between people.
Generosity as Distribution
There’s a practical side to this too, and it feels honest to name it.
Donating art, when done thoughtfully, can introduce my work to patrons who are both values-driven and comfortable investing in things they love. These are people who show up for causes, raise their paddles without flinching, and often take the time to learn about the artists behind the pieces they bring home.
But the interesting part is the order of operations: they’re not in the room to discover a new artist. They’re there to support a cause. The art is a vehicle for that generosity, not the primary reason they came. That changes the energy. It makes the conversation less about sales and more about shared values.
If a collector discovers the work there and wants to follow it back to the studio, that’s an organic outcome and an extension of the relationship that started with giving, not selling. And even if no follow-up ever comes, the piece will still have done its job: it will have raised money, created a moment, and found a home.
Designing the Practice of Giving
To make twenty-six donations possible, this has to become a practice, not a series of heroic last-minute gestures.
On the studio side, it means designing bodies of work that can sustain this level of giving without turning the donations into an afterthought. The pieces going out into these rooms will be representative of the best of my practice, not leftovers or experiments I’m afraid to price.
There’s also the question of boundaries: not every request will be a yes. Part of the discipline will be asking good questions about how the work will be displayed, whether my name and story will be visible, whether there’s a reserve or minimum starting bid, so that the gift actually functions as a gift and not as a way to devalue the work in public.
What I Hope Will Happen
On paper, this is a simple plan: twenty-six artworks, twenty-six events.
But underneath the logistics, there is a deeper experiment: what happens when generosity is built into the core of a practice, not bolted on at the edges? What happens when provenance includes not just exhibitions and collectors, but the causes that pieces have quietly helped fund?
In an art world that often treats scarcity and opacity as power, there is something quietly subversive about giving work away on purpose. Not indiscriminately, not to prove virtue, but as a structured, thoughtful way of putting art into the service of something beyond itself.
A year from now, I’d like to be able to look back and trace a map: twenty-six points where a layered object of code and paper stood in rooms full of people and nudged a number a little higher on a fundraising thermometer. Twenty-six times the work left the studio already spoken for, not by a buyer, but by a cause.
The art will still be what it has always been: a physical record of an algorithmic process, built by hand. The difference is where it begins its journey.