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

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:

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!”).

My first experience of pluralism took place on the second floor of the sunniest side of my elementary school building, in the Goose Room. The Goose Room (inside-the-box thinkers might call it an art classroom) was the quietest place in the entire school. While other teachers struggled to negotiate or enforce an appropriate volume level with groups of energetic young people, my art teacher floated from one quiet pod of students to another, asking as many questions as she answered. We learned that there were infinite ways to mix colors, and that mixing ideas, cultures, backgrounds worked the same way.

This past summer, the Fractured Atlas ecosystem welcomed Alberto Mejia as our organization’s new Chief Operating Officer. As the confetti settled, it was time to sit down and chat expansively with Alberto. He shares his personal definitions of artist support and solidarity, his hopes for the creative economy, and how fiscal sponsorship can fit into this complex puzzle. We hope you enjoy Alberto’s colorful window into Fractured Atlas’s work.

A high stakes barter exchange takes place in my apartment every morning. My cat, Zart, has determined that the fair market value of one (1) hour of additional sleep in the morning is equivalent to ¼ cup of dry food. Most recently, he has stipulated that ½ can of wet food can be exchanged for two (2) hours of additional sleep. If neither of these goods appear in his bowl at 6AM, I will not receive any additional sleep.

My measuring stick for rising inflation is the cost of an iced oat milk vanilla 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: