Art, money, and people

In a recent article in The Guardian, Amanda Palmer discusses at some length the tricky issues of making money as an artist, why artists must now more than ever try various ways to make money from their art, and the sad fact that some of the artists who have been open online about money are getting beat up for their openness.  I share Palmer's frustration at the behavior of the people giving grief to artists who dare to be open about their finances, and I generally agree with the tone of the article. 

Unfortunately, I don't believe there's anything anyone can do to stop people from behaving badly about money. 

In my experience, the moment someone talks about how much they make, other people in the discussion can't stop themselves from reacting.  Is that all?  They pay you so much money for that?  Regardless of whether they think the amount is too high or too low, most people can't have calm conversations about money.  People also often seem to feel they could manage someone else's finances better than that person can.  I just don't see any way around it.

So, though I believe it's a great thing for artists to discuss openly and honestly the various ways they're trying to make a living, I think they will have to brace themselves for the inevitable grief they will later take.  That fact saddens me, but I believe it is a fact.

Can commercial art really be art?

Yes.

Now, let's go a little deeper. My pal, John Picacio, wrote a blog entry yesterday that discussed this question from the perspective of commercial illustration vs. fine art. He covered that area beautifully, so I won't repeat any of his comments here; just go read them. What I want to discuss is how this question applies to fiction.

Through the years of my on-again, off-again writing, I attended a lot of writing workshops, as well as a great many late-night, often drunken SF convention discussions about fiction. In both of those contexts, I've heard such bold declarations as the following:

Series can't really be art.

Military SF can't really be art.

TV shows can't really be art.

Fantasy with elves can't really be art.

SF adventure can't really be art.

And on and on.

No one person made all of these assertions, of course, and I believe that if anyone had challenged all but the most drunken issuers of these statements, the speaker would have admitted there were exceptions. The underlying sentiment, however, was clearly real and strongly held--often even if the speaker had not read any of the books in question or had not read any in a very long time.

Actually, one exception was always present, and it always took this form:

[type of fiction I dislike] can't really be art unless someone I respect is doing it, in which case it's a clever/post-modern/new/[your favorite critical adjective of the moment] re-examination of/dialog with this form, in which case of course it can be art

In case the real meaning here isn't clear, let me restate this sentiment in a more concise manner:

[type of fiction I dislike] can't really be art unless someone I respect is doing it

This attitude just pisses me off, as the illustration equivalent clearly did John. (You did read his post, right? If not, do it now; I'll wait.)

I am not trying to say all art is equal; it sure as hell is not. I'm also not trying to claim I have no prejudices or opinions (I do), or that I am appointing myself the keeper of the essence of art (I'm not).

What I am saying is that for every one of these blanket statements, one can point to counter-examples that many intelligent, well-educated readers consider art, and that consequently we would all do well to limit our sweeping declarations and allow each piece of fiction we choose to read to earn or fail to earn its status with us as art.

Food as art

My fascination with food extends beyond mere appetite. Through eating at a wide variety of good restaurants and then dining at a fair number of the nation's best restaurants, I've come to appreciate that at a certain level of inventiveness and skill dishes become more than just food; they become art. Similarly, chefs become more than cooks; they become artists.

This realization is hardly new or unique to me; I do realize that fact. I mention it because people sometimes ask me why I bother to spend all the money to eat in these places, why I'm interested in great chefs, and so on. It's not simply because I love to eat, though of course I do; it's to appreciate their art, an art I get to view, smell, taste, and feel as I literally consume it. Wonderful stuff.

Many voices, many songs

After this morning's soccer game (a hardfought 0-1 loss in which the Arrows played very well), several of us in my extended family went to a Raleigh street fair, Artsplosure. We ate street food--always a favorite activity of mine--and wandered slowly through the many arts and crafts booths.

As you might expect, some of the art worked for me, and some did not. To be completely truthful, most of it was not to my taste. That said, I uniformly admired the passion and dedication of the artists who braved the heat and, probably more importantly, the vast indifference of most passersby to display and hawk their treasures.

That indifference is a foe all artists must face. For many years, I fought an internal war over writing, unable and unwilling to give it up, but also so sure that I would be embarrassingly bad at it that I could scarcely make myself do it. In the course of the over two decades of this struggle, I produced and sold about a dozen stories, a pitiful output for all the time and heartache. Finally, about two years ago I decided to write at least a little bit every day, because by this technique I would no matter what be creating something daily.

I still carry on the same internal struggle, and I remain convinced at a very deep level that I'll never write anything truly worthwhile, but now I have one novel done, another in progress, and a few new stories and story rewrites in print. I intend to keep writing no matter what.

A poster in the music room where my kids used to practice said something to the effect of "if the only bird in the forest who sang was the one with the prettiest voice, how sad the woods would be." In art as in all things, no single arbiter exists, so even saying which voice is prettiest is, I believe, impossible. Despite that fact, every artist I've ever known wrestles with some mutation of this problem.

So I have come to admire all the Artsplosure artists and craftspeople, as well as all the artists and craftspeople who toil daily at their passion no matter the reception, for keeping on singing their own songs in their own voices. The forest is large enough for us all.

And now, a quiz: At one point in the afternoon, we stopped at a purveyor of good chocolates, Peche, so some in our group could indulge in sweets and all of us could rest in air conditioning. My daughter, Sarah, particularly enjoyed her stay there. These two pictures are both from today's Artsplosure expedition; can you spot my daughter?

(Hints: She's the one with the smaller nose, and she's sufficiently beautiful that I know you're wondering if I'm really her father. I am; the sense of humor resemblance tells the tale.)