I have been writing about some of the systems that surround artists: lottery logic, the condescending “help” non-artists offer us, the endless applications, and the impact of business school thinking.

 

These systems can shape our thinking as artists. Today, I am writing about four insidious assumptions many of us carry, beliefs that all but guarantee we will build unsustainable, exhausting lives. These are the internalized versions of the disregard and disdain we often receive from others. (And this is all part of sequel I am writing to Making Your Life as an Artist.)

 

I talk with a lot of artists one-on-one.

 

Artists are so, so different.

 

And. Certain themes emerge, assumptions that underlie many of these conversations.

 

Underneath exhausting, punishing artist lives are specific punishing beliefs. Unsustainable lives don’t just happen; it takes effort to build them. There are unrealistic choices to be made, exhausting schedules to line up, massive achievements to minimize, and minor slights to obsess on.

 

This is crucial: There is not a void of principles in an unsustainable artist life, but rather a set of beliefs so closely held they become invisible, beliefs that quietly enable and even compel us to make unworkable choices.

 

Like all unchosen beliefs, saying them aloud can lessen their power. I will name four: undervaluing, scarcity, constraint, and comparison. (You may enjoy, as I do, the mnemonic SUCC.)

 

undervaluing

This is the foundational apology at the center of many artist lives: I’m so sorry I am called to make art. We apologize silently to loved ones, partners, employers, and families because art making holds little value in the world. How do we know that? Artists are constantly unpaid and underpaid. Thus begins a self-reinforcing cycle:

 

 

The work of proving ourselves valid is endless because most artists’ negativity bias overemphasizes failures and slights while diminishing achievements and praise. We do not acknowledge our (often massive) accomplishments, and instead ask nervously: What can I do today to justify my unreasonable and even selfish choice to make art?

 

Artistic practices and insights massively change human consciousness and our sense of what is possible. Without culture, humans would not be humans, and I would not be the person I am. I suspect you know this. But because the impact of art making is collective, it can be difficult to feel my specific value in my studio and in my body.

 

That is one way I contradict undervaluing: I see my work as part of a greater, collective set of practices. Our work is valuable.

 

 

scarcity

In a culture that extracts artistic visions while abandoning artists economically, we learn to make do with very little. Making something-from-nothing and seeing possibility where others don’t are artist superpowers. But there is a difference between I can make something from nothing and I must always make something from nothing.

 

Scarcity thinking doesn’t merely limit our reach, it can lead to worse decisions. A scarcity mindset around time fuels procrastination; a scarcity mindset around money can provoke binge spending. When we assume a lack of resources, we stop thinking holistically and long-term. We stop investing in the slow, inevitable deepening of our practice over years and decades.

constraint

Artists are imaginative beyond measure in the artistic practice. But in our careers, we often default to our discipline’s limited and limiting definitions of success: Real actors have agents, real dance companies tour, real painters are in museum collections, real poets are published, real musicians have record deals.

 

(I will reiterate as I always do: Nothing makes you a real artist except your devotion to your practice. Period.)

 

This constraint creates over-focus on a small number of “important” gatekeepers and gatekept opportunities. I, for example, move in circles where the Creative Capital deadline means a flurry of applying for a grant that funds less than 1% of applicants.

 

Meanwhile, constraint makes us overlook the spaces, communities, and resources where our art is already finding traction. I thought “successful” dance companies toured Europe and headlined festivals. Meanwhile, my rowdy free monthly shows full of Philly folks who walked in off the street were my real impact, my real path.

 

There is no model. I can learn from, be inspired by, and borrow from other artists' pathways. But my path will be my own. I will create that path as I create my work: bravely, step-by-step, in community, by trial and error, and on my own terms.

 

comparison

Comparison is odious. (Oscar Wilde? Shakespeare? Whoever said it, I agree.)

 

Even worse, we compare ourselves to artists whose intentions and journeys are radically different from ours.

 

What do we really know about these artists we envy? Are they leading lives we want? Is everything fabulous in their world? Whatever successful career you covet, I can tell you: I have worked with that artist, and they are stressed out, exhausted, and anxious. They are looking at someone they consider “more successful,” wondering how to get what that artist has.

 

To put that positively: Wherever you are in your artist journey, I have talked with artists who wish they were in your shoes.

 

This is why comparison is odious: No one benefits. It is specifically and precisely a tool for generating anxiety and discouragement in us all.

 

Comparison also flattens our work and lives. Defining success for myself is not only an agony reduction strategy—though it is surely that—it allows my work to fully become what it is.

 

Many things in the art world SUCC.

 

I recently sat on a panel for a grant that had all four: Artists competed (comparison) for tiny amounts of money (scarcity) that forced grantees to under fund their work and lives (undervaluing) in exchange for some alleged validation and a line on a resume (constraint).

 

Sometimes, I can contradict SUCC. I did voice my concerns on that panel, though I also helped give out those tiny grants.

 

Sometimes, I simply name it as a way of remembering that these are not my beliefs, that the truths of my practice are mine to hold and honor.