I'm Broke

An artist with no money... groundbreaking.

Work in progress detail, “Hot Labor Summer,” 2023.

For the last year or so, my bank account has been dicey.

Since the start of 2021, I’ve been trying to do the self-employed artist thing: making all of my income through a patchwork of artwork sales, commissions, illustrations, prints, grants, and residency stipends.

At first, this system worked really well. I had a cushion of COVID unemployment saved up, and rent and groceries were cheap. I wasn’t going anywhere or spending money socially. Like everyone else in the first year of the pandemic, I was stuck at home most evenings. I spent a lot of them scrolling through Twitter, where images of my work would blow up, and so would my opportunities to make money from it.

At the time, I naively hoped the conditions of my life would stay this way. If I kept making and selling my work consistently, I could actually make a little more than I used to earn from working at coffee shops or museums, teaching, or freelance writing. For once, I was paid to do what I excelled at — it felt so right!

Obviously, a lot has changed since 2021. We’re now enduring an economic recession (or however you want to technically define this.) Despite moving to a smaller city with a low cost of living, I can’t afford the everyday expenses that aren’t cheap anymore.

Still, I’ve tried to persevere with the artist gig. I kept going because it seemed as if life was sending me signs that I should keep it up; like I was right on the edge of “making it,” and reaching some new level of stability.

The Boston Museum purchased my piece. I was a MacDowell Fellow. I’ve been offered two solo exhibitions. I’m even trying to write a screenplay right now.

I’ve said yes to as many opportunities as I could. But with each passing month, my income has been more of a feast-or-famine experience. I racked up credit card debt while I waited for the museum purchase to hit my bank account. I traveled to residencies while unsure if I could afford meals while I was there.

Highlander Center - where, thankfully, the meals are free!

Lately, I’ve been driving my car in 95-degree heat with a broken air conditioner, because I can’t afford to take it to the shop. I’m thinking of canceling my plans to see friends tonight because I can’t buy gas until tomorrow. My situation isn’t terribly dire yet; I have my partner and family around to spot me in an emergency, but there’s a point where this scrappy way of life just feels so demoralizing.

It’s hard to tell at what point it’s really, actually not working. When should I stop saying, “it’ll be okay,” and just cut my losses? When am I just fucking over my partner and freeloading on everybody’s goodwill?

The thing I’m the most skilled and talented at doing does not earn enough money. Or, I’m not good enough at doing it to continue. One of these must be true.

I sent my resume to my favorite coffee shop in town, where the owner and manager are actually fans of my work. (Is this a petit bourgeois indictment of me?)

I would be extremely lucky to get some steady, part-time wage work at a place where I enjoy spending time. But thinking about returning to the service industry is a little sad. It stirs up the part of my brain that still believes in bootstrapping myths.

Am I a right-wing caricature of the barista who put all their eggs in the basket of an art degree, and will be downwardly mobile forever?

Should I be ashamed that I can’t pay my bills, when I appear to have an accomplished career from the outside?

Detail of “Hot Labor Summer,” 2023.

Right now, capitalism seems more nakedly hostile toward artists than it’s possibly ever been. Look at the WGA strike, where network executives refuse to treat writers as the essential workers they are in creating great TV and film. Look at the exploitive working conditions imposed on videogame and animation artists.

Digital platforms, which once appealed to artists as an alternative to the corporate grind, are no better than employers. Etsy is more interested in slapping on fees and transforming artists into Amazon drop-shippers than supporting their livelihoods. Twitter, of course, is circling the drain, and with it goes the online following that independent artists worked to build. Creative workers bring legitimacy to these online networks, and then we get left holding the bag.

I know that our culture doesn’t value art—or at least, we don’t want to invest in art beyond the cheapest mode of production with the most predictable outcome. But it’s hard not to take it personally. I guess, in the halcyon “free money” days of the early pandemic, I really thought I could be an exception.

I’ve been feeling pretty down on myself, and I wrote this mostly to vent. I promise it’s not a cry for help!

I am working on my upcoming solo exhibitions, and I will continue being an artist until AT LEAST January 2024. But maybe you’ll see me behind the bar at the coffee shop. I might not always find my livelihood in art, but I won’t stop making it. I think that’s the best a lot of us can do.

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Labor Intensive Recommendations

• Sleeping with the Enemy by BbyMutha - she’s from Chattanooga!

• If Books Could Kill - these dudes are equal parts thoughtful, smart, and funny as they read and criticize bestseller “airport books,” honestly makes me think so much about “common knowledge” and where all of it actually comes from.

• Clone Hero - I found a Guitar Hero controller at the used bookstore and I’ve been loving playing this fan-made game on it. I recommend King of Carrot Flowers.