Essays & Fiction

During the last four thousand years, where art existed at all, for most artists making a living meant begging from those in power. Historians call it patronage, though most of it went without saying, part of the facts of life absorbed by osmosis. Some rich person, king or noble, bishop or abbot, cardinal or pope would be approached by an artist, a painter or sculptor or poet, and if the rich person liked what he saw, the two might arrive at an understanding whereby the artist would be clothed and fed, perhaps given supplies and a stipend along with a series of commissions which were really command performances. He might also sometimes be given a tedious, responsible job as personal secretary or teacher of the rich man’s kids, in return for his work being sponsored, tacitly approved, owned and enjoyed by the wealthy man and his family. If the artist remained properly subservient, the arrangement might be lifelong. To some extent patronage still goes on today, politely veiled through a couple of mechanisms I will come to in a minute.

Today perhaps an endpoint is approaching for the written arts, where nearly everyone is an artist, a poet, though maybe not even a writer, and there is no professional publication only self-publication, no need of it really, no shame in its absence or limitation, perhaps because with everyone an author, and each reading only himself, the real need is to connect with others for the endless jockeying that constitutes a career, that seems a lot like waiting in line for your turn at that proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. And for that all you need is a smartphone, tablet or laptop and a Wi-Fi hookup. As for friends—well, there’s that old saying, misery loves company.