Twenty years ago, I sold 100 editions of an artwork.
Each one featured a £1 coin laminated onto a plain white A5 card.
I sold them for 71p at an exhibition in Leeds.
It was called The If Pound Project.
Two decades later, I thought it might be worth checking in on them. I reached out to a few of the people who bought one to see if they still had it.
But first, why did I do it?
How the price of art affects its perceived value has always interested me. It’s a dynamic that exists across capitalism, but in the art world it feels particularly exposed. Change the number, and suddenly the meaning shifts.
Artists love poking at this. The must-reference example is the KLF burning £1m in cash. I wanted a smaller, pettier version of that question.
So I gave buyers a choice:
Instantly destroy the artwork and unlock a 29p profit
Or keep it because you liked it, or because I might become famous and it might be worth more
The Destroyers
At the launch event, about eight people destroyed the artwork immediately.
Scissors out. Card cut. Pound released.
I’m not sure if it was defiance, need or just a complete lack of faith in my future. No way was that scrappy bit of card worth hanging onto while I slowly climbed the art ladder.
The Hoarders
The rest took theirs home. They were small, harmless, easy to keep. I emailed a bunch of them this year to ask what happened next.
“I’ve still got it,” came up a lot.
Usually said in an excitable yet defeated tone. Like supporting a permanently disappointing football team. You enjoy being part of it. There’s affection there. But you’re not happy with how it’s going. Wenger out.
The overriding sentiment was that they were impossible to throw away.
They’d survived multiple house moves. Been questioned by new partners. Sat quietly in drawers, folders, and boxes. Never quite valuable enough to celebrate. Never worthless enough to bin.
Some people even sent photos. Not of the artwork proudly placed on a wall, but held. Posed with. Like proof of life. Or proof of loyalty.
What I didn’t expect
What surprised me wasn’t that people kept them.
It was how hard they found it to get rid of them.
They weren’t displayed. They weren’t framed. They weren’t really talked about. But they travelled. Through house moves. Through break-ups. Through new lives and new versions of themselves.
The artwork became a burden in the mildest possible way. A tiny laminated object that refuses to leave.
Next update in 2046.