How to get rich making art.
The following essay is from my new book, Make It Anyway. If you enjoy this sample, I invite you to buy a copy or four.
It’s a familiar story. A couple is madly in love, but the guy is too poor to provide the sort of life to which the girl has been accustomed. Someone objects to her marrying below her station. Her dad insists on a proper dowry. The affair is scandalous and must be stopped. And inevitably, despite their deep passion, the couple is forced to break up.
This theme goes back to the dawn of literature. Wuthering Heights. Great Expectations. The Great Gatsby. La Bohéme. And nearly every Bollywood movie ever made.
Sad.
In the 21st century, we’re sure we’re beyond that. This sexist trope strikes us as horrible and archaic.
But is it? Or is it still alive and well in every high school on the planet?
Time and again, I hear of people who’ve had to give up their love of art — because they couldn’t make a living at it. Forced to abandon their passion because of money. “My dad won’t let me paint in a garret; I have to go to law/medical/dental/accounting school.”
Maybe we’re not that enlightened after all.
People have been making art for tens of thousands of years. But they’ve only been earning money doing it for about five hundred.
Why did we decide that if we can’t make money at it, we mustn’t make art?
I fell for this myth myself. As a teenager, I loved to draw, write, act, and make all sorts of things. But by 16, I learned that it would be ruinous if I insisted on going to art school and pursuing some creative direction.
No one had to warn me off. Everyone knows it. So, I majored in political science instead.
But over the years, I couldn’t completely forsake my love — even if it would never be sanctioned. I stayed loyal (but on the down low). Whenever I had a spare moment, I would make something. It might be a short story written late at night. Or a doodle in the margin of my meeting notes. A little book printed on an office laser printer.
The flame still flickered, deep in the closet.
People would say, “You should get your stories published.” “I bet you could sell your paintings.” “Why don’t you apply to a writers’ program?”
And I would just shrug. I wasn’t good enough to make a living at it.
So I didn’t push myself. I stopped and started. I downplayed my creations so no one would try to shove me into the ring. And I kept working for The Man.
This sounds sad. A missed opportunity. A squelched dream. A failure.
But it really wasn’t.
I didn’t try to turn my creative side projects into money because I already had a job. It paid well. I didn’t hate it. And I knew that if, by some fluke, I did sell my work, that would change it. And me.
I would go from being in love, with no strings attached, to feeling anxious and self-conscious, and fraudulent. I would betray and compromise every which way to make sure I held on to my success. I would turn my love into a job.
I’ve made thousands of drawings and paintings since I let myself go back to making again. I have never sold one. I’ve never tried. Maybe I could have, but I know I wouldn’t like it. I couldn’t see the check as a verdict on what I’d made. The fact that one person agreed to pay X dollars for my drawing doesn’t mean that it was worth X. It would be a meaningless valuation by a stranger.
I just published my 14th book. I’ve made no money on some of those books and a fair amount on others. But I never expected to make enough to live on. To quit my “job.”
So why did I bother?
Because I love seeing my books on a shelf and hearing that they changed someone’s life. And because I loved writing and illustrating them. I would have made every single one of them — even if no one had paid me a dime.
Making art has made me rich in so many ways. It has filled my life with untold happiness. I see the world differently. I understand myself more clearly. I feel powerful and sensitized and excited and connected and purposeful and free. And I’ve had so much fun.
I’ve made money in my life, but it never brought me any of those things.
Have you been watching The Bear? It’s a TV show about a group of people opening a restaurant in Chicago, and one of the best explorations I’ve ever seen of the lives of creative people. Not just chefs but all of us.
The Bear is about artists who want to be the best they can be. They strive to understand what amazing cooking can bring to the world and pursue that art, pushing themselves through great effort to new heights. It’s about enormous sacrifice, pain, and passion.
It’s also about money. Not the money the chefs will take home, but the money they need to make their passion come to life. Money is just a raw ingredient in the kitchen. It’s not the purpose or the validation.
And I think every one of these artists would gladly go on cooking, whether they were paid to or not.
Watch it and let me know what you think.
If you’re struggling with this issue, my advice is to stop worrying about the money you may or may not make from your art. Stop thinking of it as evidence of whether you are, in fact, an artist.
There are so many ways to make money if you need it. That’s a separate thing. Keep it separate.
If you want to make art, do it. If you want to make art a major part of your life, then go ahead. Don’t wait for validation or degrees or permission. Get a job that pays the bills and doesn’t leave you drained at the end of the day. It could be art-adjacent. It could have nothing to do with it at all.
Then use some of your other waking hours to create, just for you.
Money and value are not the same thing. You can be a billionaire and still be a miserable egomaniac who’ll never be satisfied. Or you can live simply, draw in a handmade sketchbook with a cheap pencil every day, and feel like the richest person who ever lived.
Your pal,
Danny
My new book is out just in time for the holidays. Priced as low as Amazon will let me, so feel free to buy one for everyone on your list!