In Martin Amis’s short story Career Move, the literary world is turned on its head. Screenplay writers struggle to get their work published in small magazines, while poets are courted by Hollywood producers and enjoy a luxurious lifestyle. It’s funny because we all know poets are more likely to be found shivering in a garret that sipping champagne in first class. Big, brash ideas bring in the megabucks; subtly beautiful sonnets are lucky to find any audience at all.

In many ways that’s always been the case. No matter what branch of the arts you perch upon, life is often a constant struggle against poverty, despair and disinterest in your work. Kafka was virtually unknown during his lifetime; shortly before his death he asked his friend, Max Brod, to destroy everything he’d written. Keats was so convinced he’d failed as a poet he had the phrase ‘Here lies one whose name was writ in water’ chiselled onto his gravestone. And Van Gough vanished into the starry night without ever having sold a painting.

Historically, many artists and writers had patrons who funded their work, often with a few strings attached. Today, patronage mainly takes the form of an arts council grant or, for a lucky few, a five-year MacArthur Fellowship. One could also argue that creative writing courses are a form of patronage, providing a safe haven for writers whose work prizes literary merit over wizarding and sadomasochism. Nevertheless, it is arguably as hard — if not harder — than ever to forge a career as a writer, painter, actor or musician.

That’s particularly true for aspiring artists from the working and lower middle class. In recent years, actors such as David Morrissey and Julie Walters have lamented the lack of opportunities for people from these backgrounds. Whither the Michael Caines and Albert Finneys of the 21st Century? goes the cry. To which one might answer: probably eking out a miserable existence on a zero hours contract, unable to afford the travel costs, acting lessons and secure accommodation that leads to the kind of opportunities Damian Lewis (Old Etonian), Eddie Redmayne (Old Etonian) and Tom Hiddlestone (Old Etonian) have all enjoyed.

Arts schools — those great petri dishes that allowed talented working class kids to mingle with like-minded souls and grow into big beautiful freaks — have also disappeared from the UK’s market and target-driven education system. The publishing industry suffers from a dearth of working class and ethnic minority voices. And the extortionate cost of a university education means ‘finding yourself’ is now almost a middle-class luxury.

So are we doomed to a future of endless folksy covers of snarling protest songs, actors with accents more plummy than jam made from Prince Charles’ Duchy plums, and authors whose working class characters say things like “ee up, g’vnor, youse wanna buy this eer whippet?”

Not necessarily. If the UK and other countries provided every citizen with a basic income, it could unleash a vast wave of egalitarian creativity. Anyone who wants to pursue an artistic calling could do so without ending up in poverty. The state would, in effect, act as their patron.

In some ways this would simply be an extension of the struggling artist finance scheme that ran throughout the latter half of the 20th century — a.k.a. the dole cheque. Bands like The Clash and writers like Geoff Dyer have cited the importance of this money during their formative years; it allowed them, and many other aspiring artists, to find their voice without fear of starvation.

While the dole wasn’t designed with this purpose in mind, the UK’s creative culture and GDP undoubtedly benefitted from the support it leant to fledgling talent. The money the state gave these artists early in their careers helped create the rich and vibrant culture at the heart of ‘brand Britannia’. But that shaky route to artistic maturity now seems closed forever: work programmes, society’s worship of the protestant work ethic and the rising cost of living have effectively destroyed the old ‘artist on the dole’ lifestyle.

Universal basic income would legitimise what was an unofficial form government patronage, giving anyone with talent the breathing space they need to develop it. Everyone would benefit from this system — not just wannabe writers and artists. Art produced by those with the best connections or most money, but not necessarily the most talent, would have to stand shoulder to shoulder with work produced by anyone with the inclination to create something incredible. True, it might also lead to a massive increase in the number of books, songs and films already bobbing about the internet, like a billion messages in bottles. But in a world where work is scarce or non-existent due to automation, there’ll also be a bigger audience for our artistic efforts — and hopefully more critics to help us sort the dross from the delightful.

Those who wish to focus on niche but culturally valuable work would be able to do so without having to bend to market forces, and those who wish to paint or write purely for their own enjoyment would be freed from the need to earn a living. Indeed, in a post-work world most of us would probably dedicate a large chunk of our time to projects we find enjoyable and meaningful — from fixing up old motorbikes to cooking and calligraphy. The dreams we’ve bottled up for our retirement would be released into everyday life.

Granted, instances of what you might call ‘Sohoitis’ — an affliction that caused aspiring artists of the 1930s and 40s to spend all their time in the Fitzroy Tavern, drinking rather than working — would no doubt increase too. People might find that the thing they’ve always fancied doing isn’t actually something they enjoy. And one could make the argument that it’s important for artists to remain connected to the wider world through some form of day job — just ask any band who followed up a blistering first album with a tiresome lament about the price of fame.

Looking further ahead, it seems possible that artificially intelligent robots might even learn to create worthwhile art. One German robot can already imitate Van Gogh’s painting style, and a short novel written by a Japanese robot recently passed the first round of a literary prize. Nevertheless, it’s hard to imagine a time when human beings won’t feel compelled to make art themselves — it is, after all, how many of us make sense of this strange thing called life.

It would be wonderful not to have to worry about the bills while we’re at it, though some people might call that wishful thinking. About as likely, in fact, as a world where poets are treated like Hollywood screenwriters.