Back in the early 1980's, when I changed direction from a field with no women in it to one that had many -- studio art -- it was equally familiar territory; my mother's mother had taught me to oil paint early in my life, and I had excelled in art throughout high school. So studying at Parsons at night seemed like a wise realignment of my creative energies, and from that point forward, I intended to become a freelance artist. Looking back, it was somewhat of a doomed enterprise on several fronts. First, art was simply not my passion. I am outrageously good at it, and have an uncanny color sense. I have been an awesome art and art history teacher. But I don't really enjoy painting, designing, etc. I got A's in art school, and have been able to sell (for modest prices) or give away nearly every painting I ever did. I am proud of them, and love them. But I rush through my artwork and can't wait to be done. Long term, art does not engage me. And second of all, the math, money and record-keeping part was, for this numerically-challenged woman, a nightmare.
But I tried hard to make a go of it simply because I wanted to spend my precious lifetime making the world more beautiful. You artists out there will certainly relate to the reaction I had from almost everyone: "Liz, don't be ridiculous. You need to forget about it entirely, or at the very least, get a 'real' job." Some of my friends were kind about it, even understanding or wistful. Perhaps they had a creative pursuit which they wished they had focused on. But many people became downright angry, even nasty. How dare I? How dare I try to make money in an artistic pursuit? It was actually rather frightening how these people (most frequently, people in more lucrative fields such as banking, the law, medicine, etc.) reacted.
So at some point years ago, I created this topsy-turvy scenario. What if this were a world without money, where paintings were the only currency? What if everyone in society was required to take part in the creation of art for 40 hours a week? If you were a good painter, you would move up the ladder and qualify for the best homes, the best food, the best opportunities and travel. If you were a poor painter or, worse, not an artist in the least, you would spend your workweek on menial tasks (for "minimum wage") such as drawing straight lines, cleaning brushes, preparing canvases, or manufacturing the art supplies. To house and feed yourself, you simply had to do this kind of work. I almost (almost) relished the satisfaction of looking down my nose at those people whose talents lay elsewhere (say, football, or real estate, or stock trading, or manufacturing of non-art goods, or entrepreneurship) and saying, "So sorry, you will have to pursue your field of interest in your own time, and it may never bring you abundance. That's just the way it is. Get a real job."
Yes, for a few minutes, that scenario feels good, it feels vindicating. Turning things topsy-turvy when you've been stalled at the bottom is so tempting, so refreshing. But if you are as sensitive as I am, you realize after a few minutes that this new reality would not feel good for long. Soon you'd sense the resentment and frustration of the millions of people out there whose best God-given talents were not being put to good use. Soon you'd realize that turning things topsy-turvy was creating a whole new set of problems and tensions, kind of a mirror image of the old scenario.
Recently, we have been promised an upending of things, and whether anyone will like any of the results remains to be seen. Yes, things have been skewed to favor a certain subset of people, and I'll be the first to say that it was not "fair." My life is exhibit A of that. However, sustainability and fairness is unlikely to be achieved by sending the see-saw crashing down in the other direction.
I'll be returning to this, no doubt...
