Taking One for the Team: How Starving Artists Support the Economy

Bashing the “artsy” set is nothing new. More than two thousand years ago, Plato took a swing, accusing art in general of being distracting, deceptive, and responsible for encouraging would-be philosopher kings to engage their lower passions. In the eras that followed, those armed with pen, paintbrush or pipes continued to be kicked in the proverbial stones, deemed pariahs during their lifetimes, dying penniless, and then having friends and family make millions from their work thereafter. Hundreds of years after that, there lived a certain student of the Humanities who was unfortunate enough to have her “Intro to Shakespeare” class in the engineering building. A semester was spent trying to make a twenty-pound anthology look inconspicuous as she tried to fly through the halls unnoticed.

Let’s face it: we live in a culture that defines the value of art by how well it matches the sofa, or how many pairs of sneakers it sells. It’s not a well-funded venture, and in many circles, isn’t even considered a “real job”. But I can’t abide people accusing us of failing to contribute to the fiduciary well-being of the country. What many nay-sayers fail to realize, is the significant contribution that artists of all shapes and sizes make to the economy, despite the lack of steady income (or any income, for that matter). Here are but a few of the many ways in which we shoulder our financial burden:

Caffeine. Creativity does not follow a nine-to-five schedule, and as such, it requires a significant amount of supplementary brain juice. In many cases, artists work both sides of the coffee counter. I once met an architectural designer who could create non-stop for two days at a time (not a wink of sleep), with the aid of a 24 of Red Bull. At two bucks a can, that ain’t chump change. Don’t even get me started on how much chocolate goes into the production of a manuscript.

Supplies. You can’t get someone to buy a pair of jeans that doesn’t make their butt look great. You can’t sell a car that has a reputation for stalling at red lights. You can, however, get a writer to pay ten dollars for a pen that doesn’t give them hand cramps. You can also sell a painter very expensive tubes of goo that might never amount to anything special. You can squeeze a small fortune out of vocalists for sheet music that’s way out of their range. Add in guitar picks, cake make-up, head shots, etc…you do the math. There’s really no such thing as discount ballet slippers or 2-for-1 trombones.

Postage. Sad to say that most of the arts have not yet moved into the internet age. Submissions and communications are usually done the old fashioned way, using trucks, sorting machines, and brave people in uniform. You can run out of deodorant, or ramen noodles, or even laundry detergent, and your life as an artist need not cease. Run out of stamps, however, and you’re screwed. Every time I hear someone say that old-fashioned letters are going the way of the dinosaur, I smile knowingly and inform them that they probably have a ten or twenty year buffer from the publishing industry.

Not bad, for a bunch of people who live off Kraft dinner, and routinely search the couch for spare change. Vive l’economie boheme!

God Is In The Details: Mysticism for the Cosmically Clueless

I’ll admit that spiritually speaking, I’m still groping my way through the universe. My soul may have been around the block a few times, but with respect to its understanding of the how and what and why of my existence, it still has a great deal of homework to do. I’ve always taken comfort in the philosophy of William James, who created a very long laundry list of characteristics for mystical experience, but who also insisted that contact with the divine was not reserved for the high and mighty. In his view, normal, every day folks had equal access to the great hereafter, and being human and curious were sufficient conditions for finding it.

I regard those looking to “prove” all of this with great scepticism. I’m convinced that whatever else is “out there”, It wouldn’t be foolish enough to make Itself detectable through our pathetic Radio Shack gadgets. I’m fairly certain that if orbs and light streaks in photographs prove anything, it’s that the spiritual world likes to pull faces and moon us. If the state of our universe proves anything, it’s that whatever or whoever is in charge has an incredible capacity for humour, and a keen sense of irony.

So I don’t look for the almighty (whoever he/she/they/it may be) in burning bushes, or statues that cry, or in strangely shaped pit stains on my shirt. The cement Buddha in the garden, the likeness of Ganesha in the living room and the Menorah in with the holiday decorations are hopeful declarations of my desire to learn, but they’re not the basis of my faith.

I let myself off the hook and try to see connections to the universe all of the little things over which I stumble on a daily basis. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I bite into a butter tart (my paternal grandmother’s signature dish). I’m sure someone is watching my back whenever “Putting on the Ritz” comes on the radio (another benevolent late relative’s favourite). I smile when the dog stares at nothing in particular on the other side of the room and wags. I read “true” ghost stories with the same vigour with which others grant celebrity tabloids.

I’m not looking for certainty, or tangible evidence, or even profound revelatory experience. What I crave, and what I treasure, are the same things that make-up James’ checklist: small moments of clarity and connection, and the sense that I’m not alone in the universe. I felt this one afternoon in the subway, on my way home from a job I despised, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. A violinist and keyboard player were filling the station with a respectable rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. It may have been the echo, or the warm summer breeze, or the nagging persistence of twenty-something angst looking to relieve itself, but something happened. I had a fleeting, but very clear sense that this wasn’t it. There was so much more to come, and I wasn’t the only being frustrated by the long search. The most comforting aspect of the experience was that revelation wasn’t beyond me. Order and balance, wherever it came from, would find me eventually. And all I had to do was go about my business.