Starving Artists: Our Unsung Cultural Heroes

After suffering one of life’s inevitable kick-in-the-pants recently, I discovered my joy of painting had seemingly vanished.  This was particularly distressing because I am the proverbial Starving Artist you’ve heard tell about, and things were hard enough already.

Actually, I am one of many.  A charter member of this proud, but hungry, tribe, we’re the same the world over.  Despite cultural differences, the one thing we all have in common is scrambling to push our creativity on to an unwilling world; to earn enough for rent and maybe the next show’s entrance fee. Nowadays especially, that’s not easy.

I speak from experience.  In order to prevent becoming homeless, I recently went into hock to purchase a used 16 foot self-contained travel trailer, along with a stunning old truck to move it, should I choose.  It is my home and my studio. Despite this mobility I have decided to curtail my gypsy lifestyle and settle in beautiful Southern Oregon. Starting over yet again, I’ve managed to rent a modest space in a quiet, peaceful RV park on a month to month basis, comforted by the thought that if I can’t make the rent, in a pinch I can park overnight at Wal-Mart. How did I get to this point?

Back when I had a well paying job and a stress level through the roof, I taught myself to paint for relaxation.  In various folk art styles, I practiced on scraps of wood, cheap plates and discarded furniture, eventually working up to my current, unprofitable, livelihood.




Faberge Egg, natural gourd

 I am a Gourd Artist.  By accident.  While the rest of the country was experiencing the past decade with all its technology, a mid-life adventure in 1997 took me to Ruff Life, a vintage, 33-foot trawler I purchased and cruised to Puerto Rico, and no, I didn’t do it alone.  But that’s another story (read more in Dented People in this blog).

I learned to work on the local higueras, and lived as a Licensed Artesan.  Despite my horrific Español, I traveled around the island, hawking my painted gourds  at art shows and festivals. It was a constant struggle to make a living, but I gained precious insights into the real lives of the everyday artist. Not the lucky few showcased in glitzy gallery openings or on educational programs, but the rest of us, frantically vying for limited resources and against foreign mass production and outright knockoffs. How can we possibly compete with artists from developing countries?  Especially when their tales-of-woe tug at the hearts of soft-hearted, well meaning shoppers?  I tremble as I write, lest I be perceived as heartless.  Absolutely not.  I don’t begrudge sales to any artist, but unfortunately our society has become so accustomed to import prices that it’s forcing too many resident artists to abandon their creativity.

We need our own union.  I’m investigating bartering; no one is sorrier than I at my fiscal ineptitude.  If painting was a form of currency I wouldn’t be on food stamps.  I’ve never worked so hard for so little for so long.

Finished Faberge Egg
Award Winner!



I hear you.  “Get a real job,” lingers in the air.  These are real jobs.  We're creating something out of nothing, and our individual evolution is essential in documenting our society.  Visualize future archealogical digs with nothing but microchips.

Just a shout away from “Uncle,” hope springs eternal in my soul.  I know it takes more than talent to be successful; it takes stamina.  Against seemingly insurmountable odds I'll keep trying, because one at a time they're not so bad.

Do what you love and the money will follow.  I love telling stories, and I’ve already proven I’m good at being a Starving Artist.  So here I go, a small voice for my fellow artists and craftspeople of America and beyond, documenting tales of our trials and tribulations, beginning with my own but hopefully a future platform for others. Once I learn how to configure my blog.