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The La Bohème syndrome: Who is kidding whom?
Starving for art? Give me a break.
Jackie Schifalacqua
Recently I had to recommend an accountant to a friend of mine so he could file his taxes. My friend, a starving writer in his mid-60s, has been down and out for his entire adult life.
The accountant I suggested does some tax work, at a minimal fee, for young creative types who are generally in their early 20s. I think this man does it as a form of tithing.
The La Bohème portrayal of starving artists living in a picturesque loft on the left bank in Paris is a far cry from my friend's two-bedroom row home on the outer edge of Center City with no central heat or refrigerator.
His primary income is eked out from various and sundry publications that send him 1099 statements at the end of the year. Since no taxes were ever withheld from his payments, he owes a substantial amount to the IRS. My friend hasn't filed a return in more than three years because he simply lacks the money to pay up.
Nevertheless, my acquaintance still considers himself morally superior to all the common free-lancers who have to work away from their desks for a living. Oh, he says, so and so is just a lawyer; you're just a paralegal; he only teaches at a school.
Right brain, left brain
Although I suffer moments of angst when I come home at night and my brain wants nothing to do with changing gear from its left side to its right, when I think about my friend and the choice he made to follow the path of least resistance and not take on full-time work to support his craft, I realize that the compromise I made with my artistic time has been worth it.
Suffering for your art is as romantic as it is nihilistic. But continuing on this path as you get older is downright masochistic.
Another friend of mine, a Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts graduate, took on the plebeian task of working for the Franklin Mint in order to support a fledgling family. Later he became an engraver for the U.S. Mint. Although he was an accomplished artist, he had to forgo the immediate gratification of gallery hangings and foundation grants because he didn't want his children to live hand to mouth.
Today, 40 years after leaving art school, he has a beachfront home in Florida, a major gallery representation and the satisfaction of knowing that he never had to rely on endowments to put food on his table. His idea of suffering for his art was to persevere through grueling ten-hour days at the Mint, coming home and, yes, finding the time to switch gears and become creative after he put his kids to bed.
There is nothing noble about being lazy and self-indulgent.
Understudy's smugness
Several weeks ago I attended a performance of Theresa Rebeck's The Understudy at the Wilma. Harry, the title character, represented all that's pompous and superfluous in the artistic temperament. From his front-row seat in the theater of life, this understudy smugly looks down upon the Jake, the actor he must stand behind because the star of the play "has sold out for money." The leading man, after all had merely starred in movies and TV while he the "real" actor had acted in umpteen second-rated theater productions that, for all I know, 1099'd him at the end of the year.
Which brings me back to my friend. The last time we talked, he was all gaga because he had received an invitation for a free lunch at a social club.
Be careful, my friend. There's such a thing as depending too much on the kindness of strangers. Just ask Blanche DuBois.♦
To read a review of The Understudy by Dan Rottenberg, click here.
To read another review by Jim Rutter, click here.
To read a response by Jessica Foley, click here.
The accountant I suggested does some tax work, at a minimal fee, for young creative types who are generally in their early 20s. I think this man does it as a form of tithing.
The La Bohème portrayal of starving artists living in a picturesque loft on the left bank in Paris is a far cry from my friend's two-bedroom row home on the outer edge of Center City with no central heat or refrigerator.
His primary income is eked out from various and sundry publications that send him 1099 statements at the end of the year. Since no taxes were ever withheld from his payments, he owes a substantial amount to the IRS. My friend hasn't filed a return in more than three years because he simply lacks the money to pay up.
Nevertheless, my acquaintance still considers himself morally superior to all the common free-lancers who have to work away from their desks for a living. Oh, he says, so and so is just a lawyer; you're just a paralegal; he only teaches at a school.
Right brain, left brain
Although I suffer moments of angst when I come home at night and my brain wants nothing to do with changing gear from its left side to its right, when I think about my friend and the choice he made to follow the path of least resistance and not take on full-time work to support his craft, I realize that the compromise I made with my artistic time has been worth it.
Suffering for your art is as romantic as it is nihilistic. But continuing on this path as you get older is downright masochistic.
Another friend of mine, a Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts graduate, took on the plebeian task of working for the Franklin Mint in order to support a fledgling family. Later he became an engraver for the U.S. Mint. Although he was an accomplished artist, he had to forgo the immediate gratification of gallery hangings and foundation grants because he didn't want his children to live hand to mouth.
Today, 40 years after leaving art school, he has a beachfront home in Florida, a major gallery representation and the satisfaction of knowing that he never had to rely on endowments to put food on his table. His idea of suffering for his art was to persevere through grueling ten-hour days at the Mint, coming home and, yes, finding the time to switch gears and become creative after he put his kids to bed.
There is nothing noble about being lazy and self-indulgent.
Understudy's smugness
Several weeks ago I attended a performance of Theresa Rebeck's The Understudy at the Wilma. Harry, the title character, represented all that's pompous and superfluous in the artistic temperament. From his front-row seat in the theater of life, this understudy smugly looks down upon the Jake, the actor he must stand behind because the star of the play "has sold out for money." The leading man, after all had merely starred in movies and TV while he the "real" actor had acted in umpteen second-rated theater productions that, for all I know, 1099'd him at the end of the year.
Which brings me back to my friend. The last time we talked, he was all gaga because he had received an invitation for a free lunch at a social club.
Be careful, my friend. There's such a thing as depending too much on the kindness of strangers. Just ask Blanche DuBois.♦
To read a review of The Understudy by Dan Rottenberg, click here.
To read another review by Jim Rutter, click here.
To read a response by Jessica Foley, click here.
What, When, Where
The Understudy. By Theresa Rebeck; David Kennedy directed. Closed January 30, 2011 at the Wilma Theater, 265 S. Broad St. (at Spruce). (215) 546-7824 or www.wilmatheater.org.
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