Struggling artist is a cliche term that has been repeated to the point of emptiness, of having no more meaning at all. In truth, society expects its artists to struggle because it has decided that the arts is not a priority, that only those fields which grease the wheels of capitalism are the true contributors to moving America forward. And so with this mind set it is accepted that the artist must suffer.

The common belief is that the artist’s struggle is an economic one and it is okay because that is a struggle that we can understand. Americans respect the economic struggle because in one way or another it is a struggle we are all involved in, even those with financial resources must strategize and consider how to spread their wealth for maximum effect. And that is why we are not concerned with the struggle of the artist in particular.

Yet to distill the artist’s struggle into that of pure economics is to make a serious mistake, one with ramifications that extend out into greater society. As previously prefaced America is concerned with the quantifiable and it rewards, from the earliest stages, those who follow directions. Aspiring medical doctors know that they must excel in biology and the sciences in hs and college, they must prepare for and score well on the MCAT’s and get into a medical school, once there they must study voraciously and apply for their rotations, after rotations there are board tests and applications for residency. In short order there will be graduation, residency and then one is a doctor. There are similar paths for lawyers and architects and others of the highly skilled vocational variety. Yet there are no similar paths for the artist, there is no one direction for the artist to follow with the final result being able to be a respected artist. Even if an artist wanted to follow the rules, there are no true rule to follows. Arguably there are Juilliard’s and dance companies, however they are designed for certain specializations of artists and thus cannot boast a path which will satisfy all artists.

As a writer with the goal of becoming a published author, I of course know that I must create some type of product on which to hinge my dreams. And so I write, a satisfying practice but also a lonely one. And more importantly, not one with a guaranteed end result. Of course every person who starts med school will not finish, but that will be due to a personal lack and not based on the whim of those who would be the gatekeepers to art. I can write a thousand books and if no one wants to publish them, and if I don’t choose to publish them myself, they will be nothing more than something I once did. All of the hours and the outlines, the rewrites and character sketches, plot diagrams and edits will mean nothing because what I produce is not guaranteed an outlet into the world. And so I doubt myself, even when the sentences are flowing out of me like water and the stories seem to be writing themselves, I doubt. There is no charted next step for me, there is however the need for me to be not only artist, but promotor and hype woman and networker and secretary in my effort to get my work into the right hands. It is not enough that I have the skill to write, unlike the skill to heal, but I must also take on the tasks which are standing in between my work meaning something or never even being seen at all. This is the artist’s struggle. The internal desire to produce something which has not been asked for and to share it against society’s desire to respect only those things which they have pre-approved, shared with them by those with full-time jobs.

The swirl of motivation which pushes one to create can be overwhelming, it is an excitement and a relief to produce and then it is in many cases a stagnant thing. Something an artist shares with close friends and family, perhaps they can link up with a tiny gallery, a local theatre, a small printing company. But maybe they can’t and their art will become something they used to do, before they grew up and got serious. For doctors and lawyers, even for the more fuzzy skills of the financial analysts and investment bankers there will be jobs. There will be someplace that respects these skills and it will usually show that respect by offering an above average income in return. The artist will continue on, until the desire for security and comfort combines with the rejection and the constant yearning, and then they will give-in to society’s promise to reward those who follow the rules instead of those who try to create their own.

The artist’s struggle is an internal and emotional one, yet it does not leave the rest of us as unaffected as we might want to believe. Stifled brilliance, or bound creativity is a thing of torture. For society, it limits the ways that we can communicate with and come to know one another. Broadway is but one street in NYC, while financial centers, law firms and their ilk abound in every city. The artists who set their sights on that one Broad way, that one theatre company, that one literature canon, are entering a competition of epic proportion, a contest in which talent is not the sole requirement. And it is society that misses out, on stories that need to be told, on songs that should have been sung, on melodies that should have moved us and raised goosebumps on our forearms. We are missing out on connection and inspiration and grace. By focusing only on the quantifiable we are missing the things that are everything else; love, compassion, honesty and truth. The artist’s struggle than becomes society’s struggle with art, or the lack thereof.

And in the artist, the suppression of creativity or the silencing of expression, can become a bitter thing. A twisted torment which leads to the other cliche of the tortured artist as the tales of deviance and drug use and liquor commence. Everyone aspires to validation of some sort and the path of an individual artist is most commonly a lonely one, particularly for those who work alone; our writers, our poets, our painters and sculptors, etc. I am too willful to continue to allow myself to spend more time being depressed ( a thing I have struggled with since hs) and too judgmental to allow myself to be addicted to drugs or alcohol. But I am definitely at risk for each of these things. My mind is a constant race of thoughts and ideas. I ache to write almost constantly and have sketched outlines for 6 books, each in varying stages of completion. I want to sing (and do) and paint (and do) and design (and do) and decorate cakes (and do) and I have an idea for a series of photographs (have been dreaming about for years). And of course all of that sounds schizophrenic, but when I am engaged in each of those things hours are minutes and even food is no longer a priority, but an afterthought. I am free and not watching the minutes tick by on the clock or thinking of ways to break up the monotony of my day. [BTW: I am certain it would not be unreasonable if I said I wanted to copy and scan, write memos and attend meetings, manage and administrate, all activities of the corporate schizophrenia which we have chosen to approve] But I digress. Suffice it to say that I cannot attend to those needs mainly because they are creative, and they are definitely needs and not wants. Why? Because I must get real, get a “real” job and then once I have one I will work 40+ hours a week in service to it. And then I will have to fit the only things that bring me peace, excitement and happiness too, but mainly and always peace, into the spaces and hours that are left. This is the artist’s struggle, staying true to oneself and honoring one’s passion while maintaining independence; see: eating and rent and such things.

We are all doing ourselves a disservice by reducing the artist’s struggle to an insignificant, throw-away remark. We are devaluing the artist whose contributions we do not respect unless the market respects it, through tickets, book and cd sales, etc. We are reminding them daily that self-expression without a financial outcome is an unwanted, narcissistic waste of time. And we are also devaluing our society; stifling the voices and the photographs, the painted homages and the books, the costumes and the plays that share with us who we were before we had to abandon our imaginations for reality. We are ignoring that which remind us of who we are when people, and the culture they create, are celebrated more than money.