20SomethingMom chronicles of a young mom

Glorification of the Starving ArtistPosted by admin on June 21st, 2009

On this cloudy Father’s Day, my hubby and I took our little one to his favorite toddler park and grabbed a bite to eat at a local burrito joint whilst enjoying the mountain views.  While it was a fun family outing, it also served as a reminder of our misconceptions about Asheville.

Every time we leave the house, we are conflicted.  This is the perfect place to live in so many ways: there is a lively downtown, you never have to drive more than ten minutes to go anywhere, and it is surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains and all that they have to offer in the way of aesthetic entertainment and nature-filled fun.  Still, it is a place swarming with (literally) starving artists.  Housing is affordable, but not when you’re making minimum wage working at the organic grocery (at which, ironically, you can’t afford to shop).  There are plenty of fun activities, but they all require at least a little bit of money, and free time, neither of which you have if you are slaving away to support yourself or, more likely, a family.

We moved here partly to escape urban sprawl and yuppiedom, and partly to integrate into what seemed to be an artistically supportive community.  Four-plus months into our new life, and we’ve had almost zero luck with our tutoring and photography businesses.  Call it a sign of the times, but we’re learning a hard lesson: if you don’t have the well-paying job, living in paradise will be for naught.  We have many opportunities to go to the park together, and I am fortunate enough to be able to leave my son with his Papi during the few hours when I tutor in the afternoons.  But this freedom means that we are scraping by, and if the amount of weekday foot traffic in our neighborhood means anything, we aren’t the only ones.  There are NO jobs in Asheville, except those in the hospitality industry that pay $6/hour.  Even the medical field, once the economic beating heart of this mountain town, is dissipating quickly.

So, we are faced with a sad choice brought on by the combination of a capitalist vacuum and the desire to live more simply.  Depressed America seems to be telling us: either dive into debt and don’t look back, or compromise your values.

Last weekend, we went on a Studio Stroll through the River Arts District.  Over 100 studios were open for browsing.  The River Arts District is one of many attractive aspects of this town, with its dilapidated, graffiti-stained warehouses full of creative people.  It is old, rustic, and beautiful in character and looks.

Jonas Gerard, a world-renowned painter, owns a large studio there.  He gave a demonstration in a stuffy, packed room full of tourists and a few locals.  As we watched with intrigue, he flung coffee grounds on a wet canvas, scraped designs into layered paint, and almost inadvertently created a valuable work of art, all while dancing lazily to Latin music.  He was funny, and clearly talented.  My husband and I couldn’t enjoy it as much as we would have, though, had we not been surrounded by wealthy art patrons who fancied themselves experts.  There was more snide commentary than reverence in that room.

Coupled with the glimpses of the less-than-modest sleeping quarters and tattered clothes of the artists whose names draw sightseers to this part of the country, the paradox of the art world was too much to handle.

Like we did after today’s quaint afternoon in a struggling city, we came away with a bad taste in our mouths.  It seems that there really is no way out of cowering in the face of those who will ultimately hand over your livelihood.  Art, of any medium, is respected in the sense that it gives the well-to-do a steady stream of conversation pieces, but is otherwise looked upon as the poor man’s pursuit.

I want to be a writer, but I have bills to pay and a one-year-old whom I love too much to send to daycare.  So, I write this blog to satisfy my own craving for language, teach my tutoring clients to be good communicators, and plan for life as a professor, when perhaps my way with words will be given credibility.

My husband is a photographer, a trained and talented one.  Yet, he is forced to compete with people who have a running start in the resources department: the housewife who turned her hobby into a business, the traveler who spends thousands on equipment and advertising.

Dreams and reality do not mix, though we desperately try to mold them into one life.  The “starving artist” can live his dreams until he wants to settle down and start a family.  Then, he will realize that the very corporations whose existence he used to protest will be providing for his children.  Twenty or thirty years later, he can pursue his passions again when he has a fat 401(k) to depend on.

Is this what we want to become of our culture?  I’d venture to say no, and that we can stop the trend now, but I would be dreaming.

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