How to Find Friends and Make Art at the End of the World
Ann Moody, Support Structures for Willful Arms, ongoing. Reclaimed fabric processed with synthetic dye, airbrush, acrylic marker, and piece work, hand- and machine-knit components made with synthetic and natural fibers, woven components made from reclaimed, spray-painted tshirts and potholder loops, thread, wood, screws, sandbags. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Ann Moody.
“We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of Kings”
“The success of other artists is good for you.” I nodded my head along, but in truth I was deeply struggling with how to embrace this concept.
This was said at an ArtistU workshop in the fall of 2013. ArtistsU is an incubator for changing the working conditions of artists, founded by writer and choreographer Andrew Simonet in 2006. ArtistsU offers group workshops, one-on-one planning sessions, and provides pay-what-you-can content online, all with the explicit goal of helping artists thrive.
Simonet repeated several times: “the success of other artists is good for me.” He explained that if other artists are getting recognition, exposure, and funding, it increases public awareness of these art forms, and is good overall for the entire artistic community.
Coming from an art-funding deprived state like South Carolina, I did not understand how other artists getting exhibition opportunities and grants over my own work could possibly be good for me. I could count on one hand the number of grants and fellowships I could apply to in my home state. There were even fewer contemporary art galleries that would show the type of work I was making. In my mind, I was in competition with every artist I knew, many of whom were my friends.
Even when I moved to New York State — which had considerably more resources to offer — the sense of competition did not go away. More grants and fellowships and galleries to apply to, yes, but now I was up against every single artist in New York City.
This internalized competitiveness — and the subsequent jealousy — was the result of a scarcity mentality. A scarcity mentality arises when there is a capitalism-driven fear of a lack of resources and the resulting impulse to hoard. As Iain Ferguson writes:
“The very nature of capitalism divides workers. Workers’ labour power becomes a mere commodity sold on the labour market. Here, they are forced to compete against each other for jobs and scarce resources and this creates the material conditions that breed the major divisions… that fracture modern life.”[2]
There were only so many opportunities for showcasing my work, for getting paid to do so, and for finding a career in the “arts.” With this mindset, I found myself increasingly wanting to hoard opportunities from other artists, and felt hesitant to ask for their support, assuming their outlook was similar to my own. In no way did I thrive; instead, I just became isolated from my peers.
Capitalism teaches us that individualistic gain comes through competition with others for (seemingly) limited resources. There’s this sense that there are only so many opportunities for us to succeed, and the fear of rejection (or failure) prevents us from forming mutually beneficial and sustainable communities. It’s reinforced by capitalistic notions of success: the more grants I get, the more work I can make, the more exhibitions I’ll have on my CV, the closer I’ll be to that tenure-track position/museum exhibition/MacArthur Genius Award.
This mindset is in direct opposition with Simonet’s argument: “the success of other artists is good for me.” If the stakes of individualistic artistic “success” are so high, and the level of competition so fierce, embracing the achievements of other artists is an insurmountable task. It takes completely re-evaluating one’s personal definition of success, which in turn challenges the ways capitalism has influenced artistic practices, careers, habits, and lifestyles.
In the fall of 2020, I hit what felt like my emotional rock bottom. I was two years out of my MFA, teaching online classes as an adjunct, partially living off of government support. 2020 started as a good year: a residency lined up for the summer, a publication of my work was scheduled, and a part-time job in the arts that was steadily becoming full-time. I was hitting my stride; everything I’d been working for for a decade was starting to come to fruition.
Obviously, all of that fell through. Eviscerated, like the low-budget SFX of a vampire run through with a stake in an after-school program. As I frantically tried to salvage my art career and practice, I found myself isolated, teaching drawing classes to a row of black squares, unable to produce any of my own art, with an inbox steadily filling up with rejection letters. Like many others, I felt burnt out and prepared to walk away from my artistic practice entirely. After years of following the rules for achieving artistic success by capitalism’s standards (say yes to every gig! sleep when you’re dead!), I had nothing to show, and I wanted to give up. I was tired.
I needed support, but asking directly for help isn’t one of my strengths, so instead, I posted a brief note to my Instagram story:
Two people responded. We set a date for a virtual meeting shortly thereafter.
This now-four-person group, which we refer to as the “Studio Artist Support Group,” has been going strong for two years. In the course of this time, three of us have received major grants. Two have secured careers as teachers. Two of us sit on the board of directors for non-profit arts organizations. We’ve joined artists co-ops, attended residencies, had our art published and exhibited.
Though these accomplishments align with capitalistic notions of success, I would say that the real measure of growth for our group is the fact that each one of us is still actively making art. We are still texting each other pictures of works-in-progress, and still offering feedback. We are still asking for assistance, and still giving it. We are still celebrating each other’s victories, still motivating each other to keep going.
We’ve managed to create a sustainable artist community, one where jealousy and competition have fallen by the wayside in favor of supporting each other’s well-being and personal growth. This group was built on principles of mutual aid, relying on cooperation over competition.
“The success of other artists is good for me.”
So, how did we get here?
Brandon Giessmann, Untitled Barbed Wire (Taupe), ongoing. Powder-coated barbed wire. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Brandon Giessmann.
“I refuse to believe in scarcity or to hoard opportunity.”
Step 1. Build an Artist Cohort
There’s a cheesy motivational meme that says “surround yourself with friends who would mention your name in a room full of opportunities.” As eye-roll inducing as that is, these are exactly the people you want in an artist cohort.
In my experience, finding my cohort took trial and error: I opened myself up and offered my support to people who either did not reciprocate, or worse, who used my support to leverage themselves at my expense.
Despite this, I kept trying, and eventually found the people who were not only interested in my work, but who wanted to see me succeed. These were the folks who regularly engaged with my artwork through feedback, who congratulated me on my wins, and who sent opportunities my way (“did you see this call for exhibitions?” “I think you should apply to this residency”). These people were already resisting scarcity mentalities; they were people I could learn from.
If you’re early in your career and don’t know any other artists, I’d recommend finding some communities to try out. This could be as small as joining a local art-hangout, or as major as going to art school. There are a number of free and affordable options out there for getting involved with artist communities. Start small, start local. [4]
Step 2. Establish Boundaries and Intentions
Setting boundaries is important in every relationship, but especially with something more abstract like an artist group. For our group, we wanted a safe space to share new and unpolished work, and talk freely about our experiences in the art world. Part of this meant limiting the size of the cohort. Others could be — and were — invited to join, but only with the explicit acceptance of everyone in the group: we all needed to feel safe.
We set the intention to actively support and engage with each other’s work. This meant attending regular studio visits, sharing opportunities, giving feedback on websites and artist statements, and reviewing applications for exhibitions, residencies, jobs, grants, and more. We have a shared Google Drive account where we keep our drafts and portfolios, which can be edited at our own pace. We’ve used this system to produce grant applications, teaching pedagogies, and exhibition proposals. Having the insight and feedback of a group of peers is a powerful tool.
Step 3. Stay Committed
The Studio Artist Support Group has been meeting regularly for two years. I believe that what drives our engagement is a mutual commitment to help each other, a result of genuine friendship. We maintain several group chats where we share our challenges, wins, and occasional gripes (as well as art memes). It’s easy to stay in touch with folks whose work I’m genuinely invested in, and friends who I want to help thrive.
Julia Rose Sutherland, Vigil - The Land Remembers, ongoing. Performance. Courtesy of the artist.
Step 4. Resist Capitalistic Definitions of Success, Rinse and Repeat
A story I’ve heard repeated from different artists goes like this: someone’s art starts to take off — they get a prestigious residency, or the dream job — and their friend, who is not getting these opportunities, grows to resent them. Shoulders grow cold, and with that, a friendship is destroyed.
I think many artists struggle with jealousy and feelings of inadequacy. In a world with “scarce” resources and limited opportunities, it’s an easy hole to fall into. However, maintaining a mindset focused on mutual aid and cooperation can help resist these tendencies.
A friend who gets a prestigious residency means you have a friend who knows how to write the application, a friend whose artistic network has grown. This is someone to lean on, ask advice of, someone to collaborate with. Remember that capitalism, scarcity mentalities, and abysmal art funding are the real enemies, not your bestie getting a grant.
The other part of this step is to continue to challenge your definition of “success.” Investigate what motivates you. Can you separate your own wants from the expectations of your family, professors, and peers? Are the things that you’re working towards sustainable and attainable goals?
It’s important to note the contradiction of finding capitalistic success in an artist group based on mutual aid and anti-capitalist ideals. There isn’t an easy, immediate, capitalism-free solution to fixing the art world. But I personally find hope in the tenacity of art to thrive under less-than-ideal conditions, hope in artists who question and challenge dominant ideologies, and those who, on occasion, gesture to new futures.
If there was a 5th step to my how-to guide, it would be to create the opportunities and spaces you want to see in the art-world as a way to resist scarcity. If there’s a lack of contemporary art galleries in your area, make one of out of your garage/basement/shed, or create it virtually. Crowd-source an artist grant for someone you know. Turn a camping trip into a writer’s retreat. And then put all of it on your CV, because that is the real experience.
To finish, I’ll end with the second half of the Ursula K. Le Guin cited at the beginning of this essay: “Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art.”[5]
1 From Le Guin’s acceptance speech at the 2014 National Book Foundation award ceremony.
2 From “Politics of the Mind: Marxism and Mental Distress,” 2017
3 This was posted on Roxane Gay’s Instagram story on July 24, 2022
4 A few recommendations: The BICA School in Buffalo, NY (a free, alternative secondary art school); free and virtual residencies, such as Vinegar’s recurring virtual artist residency (Birmingham, AL but open to everyone); Toronto’s Queer Art Club (@queerartclub_toronto); St. Catharine’s SWFT (Supporting Women, Femme, and Trans) Artist Group; and last but not least, renting studio space, taking workshops, or volunteering at an artist-run-center or non-profit.
5 This essay would not be possible without the support of Brandon Geissmann, Ann Moody, and Julia Rose Sutherland, whose work is featured in this essay. Thank you for your trust.
by K. MacNeil
K. MacNeil is an artist, curator, educator, and writer. They maintain an interdisciplinary practice that explores experiences of trauma, grief, mental health, disability, and gender and the various ways these topics enmesh in Western culture. MacNeil holds an MFA in Studio Art from the University at Buffalo (2018) and a BA in Studio Art from the College of Charleston (2011). They currently work as the College Printer at Massey College at the University of Toronto.
Note from the Editor:
The print version of this essay differs from this online version. This online version is more true to MacNeil’s voice.
