When I serendipitously checked out a library book about sustaining a creative life, I was certain it was a cipher to my own journey of making. It was a moment when I was searching for a rudder. In several different personal essays, artists praised the subsidized housing and/or studio space they received. Others acknowledged the importance of their “day jobs” to creative risk-taking, which, ahem, turned out to be full-time teaching positions, replete with salary and benefits. As I turned the pages, I couldn’t help but think that the very ingredients they deemed essential for building their careers now seemed scarce.
I was looking for answers from artists just a generation or so older than me, but it seemed like the infrastructure they relied on was evaporating. Diminished public support for the arts (I’m looking at you, National Endowment for the Arts) occurred for individual artists in the 1980s and 90s as a reaction to the culture wars, and more recent slashes due to DOGE cuts. As our society underfunds public arts and cultural initiatives, private support and partnerships are called upon to ease the gap, and enormous value continues to be placed on influencers, celebrities, and entertainment.
Uncertain of how to move forward, let alone figure out what it meant for me to sustain a creative life, I froze. Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience, where being creative felt out of reach. Slowly, I began to ask people what sorts of things they liked to make. I posed the question to artists and nonartists alike. I learned about daily writing exercises, leaky studios, family textile traditions, the triumphs of releasing a mold, and community choirs. I was engrossed by the breadth of uncertainty, vulnerability, and pleasure that others shared. This balm helped me understand there isn’t a secret code to a creative life. It’s a series of small actions that I build over time and with others, so that I can sustain it for the long haul.
First and foremost, I need to spend time with other artists! Participating in critique groups and accountability pods helps me build a supportive safety net for sharing ideas and getting feedback on my work. Likewise, sharing equipment and studio space with other artists has not only helped me gain access to the tools that I need to make my work; it connects me to others. Similarly, collaborating on group exhibitions (my practice is in visual art) has helped us share our work more widely. This web is built through the work of artists, art lovers, and creative entrepreneurs. This sort of community building is often beyond the scope of institutions, relying on our collective work to fill gaps left by a lack of public support.
Whether by attending an open-studio day, visiting a museum, performance or fair, the act of showing up to see art in person is part of my restorative practice. It requires me to slow down for a few moments to take it in.
Advocating for policy changes that benefit artists is another way I enact my vision for the future. While building community is essential for bridging gaps, policy is the place to repair them. Philanthropic initiatives such as the Wallace Foundation’s Advancing Well-Being in the Arts, which supports arts organizations led by people of color through grantmaking and research, play a critical role in improving economic circumstances for artists and organizations. As published by Creatives Rebuild New York in New York Isn’t New York Without Artists, by advocating for policies — such as affordable housing and labor protections for non-traditional workers — we can build solidarity with stakeholders beyond the arts to help build a more just future.
Taking workshops and classes, as well as attending artist talks, readings, and post-film conversations have all helped me expand my practice! It’s provided me with the motivation and support I need for creative risk taking. These are also helpful ways to sharpen my expertise and grow my community. Many of these workshops and classes are led by other cool artists, and I love being able to support them by buying a ticket and showing up.
Nowadays, I think of my practice as an unsteady drip. Sometimes I’m making things and other times not, but I am committed to the process to sustain me in this world.