Sometimes, usually late at night when I’m feeling maudlin, I start writing a blog entry about the economics of creation. In the morning I look at it and delete it. It seems whiney or ungrateful or…I dunno, who wants to hear about money? Art isn’t about money, is it? Except when it is.
Creative work is the least lucrative byroad of an artist’s life. Education and performance (or moving your fingers at some function) are where the money is. The situation in theatre is particularly dire (see here.) Although some folks are doing okay…
So I noted with interest an article in the Sunday NYT about Arena Stage’s new commitment to playwrights. Ha! Finally! Arena’s new project will address playwrights’ “enormous frustrations in persuading major regional houses…to mount the second or third production of a new play…” But no. What’s Arena doing? A revival of Oklahoma, a world premiere, a new plays festival, a fancy interactive database, a rooming house for visiting playwrights. Worthy as all these projects may be, I’m not impressed. Seems like more of the same.
Sure, premieres are great, I guess. I want my new stuff to be produced. But I’d like my old stuff to get a hearing too. It’s clear that the nonprofit theatre scene favors in-house development of new work, because there’s grant money attached to those projects. And there’s grant money attached to it because artistic directors and philanthropists want to make a cultural splash. (Note to Arena: Us old folks out in the boondocks don’t need to stay in your rooming house for a year; we just want you to read the stuff we already wrote and produce it from time to time.)
And you know, there’s nothing wrong with making a cultural splash; new drama is exciting; it’s good, the creative fervor and all…but I direct your attention to my second paragraph and ask you to consider, who’s making a living off this enterprise?
Well, enough with the complaints. In fact, I do get produced and audiences like my stuff and I make a living. And I’m saved from the humiliation and tedium of academic work by my lack of a degree. Ian David Moss made some lovely points back in 2008 about the “amateur” status of most composers, which cause me to scratch my head. Do you call yourself a professional if you make most of your money off it? Or if you get a nice fellowship? Or conversely, if you scrabble in the trenches for some time, remuneration notwithstanding?
The only thing I know for sure about amateur composers is that their requirements have caused Sibelius, my notation program of choice, to become so bogged down with realistic playback and an “Ideas Library” that it takes forever to load up. But hey, give the people what they want.
Now to post this before I decide it’s too whiney.
The photo at the top is of Mikhail Bulgakov. I highly recommend his novel “Black Snow, A Theatrical Romance.”
