Artist Resources, Grants for Artists, Creative Projects, Making Money for Artists

My phone recently broke in a very particular and life-changing way. Every three minutes on the dot, the screen goes pitch black, the phone shuts down, and then immediately turns back on again as if nothing ever happened. While this doesn’t affect any core functionality, like sending a text or placing a bulk order of fresh churros — the most essential things you can accomplish with a smartphone in under three minutes — it did provide some much-needed relief from the endless doomscrolling experience that’s come to define our online lives.

Every month, Fractured Atlas provides a list of upcoming grants and opportunities for artists and arts-based projects so that you can discover more opportunities to get financial support and other resources for your work. As a fiscal sponsor of over 3,500 artistic projects, we provide access to grants for artists in every discipline.

I’ll never forget the first time I took myself on an artist date. Okay, to be honest, I forget most of the details. But I’ll never forget how it felt. The clarity! The creative freedom! The subversive undertones. It was my first taste of anti-productivity.

From the beach to the dating pool, red flags are a form of communal protection: the water isn’t safe, keep out. Green flags, on the other hand, are like lighthouses, guiding us towards safety and belonging. In my time navigating these choppy arts industry waters, I’ve learned to trust my gut when it comes to people, institutions, and opportunities. If someone feels too good to be true, they’re probably not real. If a workplace leaves you feeling emptier than a box of fruit snacks on the playground, it’s time to clock out (early). But when an application portal prioritizes accessibility or a job listing includes a salary? Those people probably know what’s up. “Trust your gut” is an awfully short blog post (3 words okay, boss?), so let’s dive in and categorize some common arts industry experiences.

My measuring stick for rising inflation is the cost of an iced lavender matcha latte. It used to be $5, then $6, now a harrowing $7. Every time I reach the checkout screen, a familiar, condescending voice comes blaring through my head:

Hold up. Gig work is work? We know this news may come as a shock to some readers. Unless you’re an artist, in which case you are intimately familiar with the hidden costs, expectations, and contradictions of 1099 work. Like many other unacceptable realities of American living, the financial precarity of gig workers has been normalized in day-to-day life and entrenched in our laws. But there are growing networks of people working to change this reality and offering promising visions for the future of gig work for artists. We’re here to bolster 1099 arts workers with a bundle of statistics, a not-so-secret stash of resources, and a heaping spoonful of hope:

Dancer, director of La Rosario Proyectos, yoga practitioner — these are just three of Awilda Rodríguez Lora’s countless, shapeshifting forms. Born in Mexico, raised in Puerto Rico, and working across the Americas and the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, Rodríguez Lora's lifelong practice is defined by its movement — bodily movement, political movement, and moving the field of experimental performance forward with every step. To learn more about Rodríguez Lora and La Rosario Proyectos — a creative project fiscally sponsored by Fractured Atlas — keep reading or listening.

In a world where our time and attention are continually mined as a resource, reclaiming your focus and directing it towards creative work is nothing short of a revolution. But if you’re anything like me, devoting time to your creative work is an ongoing process with perpetually shifting seasons. Some months, you might be on a roll and fall into a nice, smoooooth rhythm: making art before breakfast, chores after dinner, plotting revenge plus resting on the weekend. In my busy bee era, an entire year could fly by with plenty of creative gigs (and all the admin work that they bring)—but seemingly no time left over for a personal, creative practice.

When I told two of my friends that I was writing an article about artist websites, both of them sighed loudly and hid their faces behind their hands. I want to extend acknowledgement and validation to anyone who has ever felt personally victimized by their artist website, and the never-ending upkeep it requires 🙋🏾‍♀️ 🙋🏻 🙋🏿 🙋🏼

As you tuck your creative practice in for the night, the moment you’ve been dreading for years finally arrives. “Where do grants come from?” it asks, wide-eyed and full of hope. “While one-time grants can come from anywhere, like a gift from Oma, the big grants that reappear year after year are usually funded by an endowment,” you say, wishing you could end the talk there. Internally, you’re debating whether to start with the bright side of endowment funds, like free tuition for medical students in the Bronx, or start in the beginning, where white folks gifted each other other people’s land (“Charles, lad, you must have this forest! You simply must!”).