How to get rich making art.

Look, it's a familiar story. A couple's madly in love, but the guy is too poor to provide the sort of life to which the girl has been accustomed. And somebody objects to her marrying below her station, or her dad insists on a proper dowry. And the affair is scandalous. It's got to be stopped. And inevitably, despite their deep passion, the couple is forced to break up because of money. This theme goes back to the dawn of literature, Wuthering Heights, or Great Expectations, Great Gatsby, La Boheme, and nearly every Bollywood movie that's ever been made. And it's sad. In the 21st century, we're beyond that. We're sure we are. It's a sexist trope that's horrible and archaic. But is it really? Or is it alive and well in every high school on the planet? Time and again, I hear of people who had to give up their love of art because they couldn't make a living at it. They were forced to abandon their passion because of money. My dad won't let me paint in a garret somewhere. I have to go to law school or medical school or dental school or accounting school. Maybe we're not that enlightened after all. Now, people have been making art for tens of thousands of years, but they've only been earning money doing it for about 500. So why did we decide that if we can't make money at it, we mustn't make art? I fell for this myth myself. When I was a teenager, I loved to draw, to write, to act, to make all sorts of things. But by the time I was 16, I learned that it would be ruinous if I insisted on going to art school and pursuing some creative direction. And nobody had to warn me off. Everybody knows it. So I majored in political science instead, and then I got a job in advertising. But over the years, I couldn't completely forsake my love, even if it would never have been sanctioned. And I stayed loyal, but on the down low. Whenever I had a spare moment, I would make something. It might be a short story that I wrote late at night or a doodle in the margin of my meeting notes or a little book that I printed out on an office laser printer. It's flame. It's there, still flickering deep in the closet. And people would say, you should get your stories published. I bet you could sell your paintings. Why don't you apply to a writer's program? And I would just shrug. I wasn't good enough to make a living at it, so I didn't push myself. I stopped. I started. I downplayed my creations so nobody would try to shove me into the ring. And I kept working for the man. This sounds sad, a missed opportunity, a squelched dream, a failure, a tragedy. But it really wasn't. I didn't try to turn my creative side projects into money because I already had a job, and it paid well. I didn't hate it, and I knew that if by some fluke I did sell some work, that would change it. It would change me. I would go from being in love with no strings attached to feeling anxious and self-conscious and fraudulent. And I would betray and compromise every which way to make sure that I held on to my success. I would turn my love into a job. I've made thousands of drawings and paintings since I let myself go back to making things. And I've never sold one of them. I've never tried. Maybe I could have, but I know I wouldn't have liked it. I just couldn't see that check as a verdict on what I'd made. And the fact that one person agreed to pay X dollars for my drawing doesn't mean that it was worth X dollars. It would be a meaningless valuation by some stranger. I just published my 13th book. I've made no money on some of those books and a fair amount of money on other ones, but I never expected to make enough money to live on to quit my job. So why did I bother? Because I love seeing my books on a shelf and I love hearing that they change someone's life. And because I loved writing and illustrating them, I would have made every single one of them even if no one had paid me a dime. Making art has made me rich in so many ways. It's filled my life with untold happiness. I see the world differently. I understand myself more clearly. I feel powerful and sensitized and excited and connected and purposeful and free. And I've had so much fun. I've made money in my life, but it never really brought me any of those things. If you're struggling with this issue, my advice is to stop worrying about the money you may or may not make from your art. Stop thinking of it as evidence of whether you are, in fact, an artist. There are so many ways to make money if you need to, and that's a separate thing. Keep it separate. If you want to make art, do it. If you want to make art a major part of your life, go ahead. Don't wait for validation or degrees or permission or checks. Get a job that pays the bills and doesn't leave you drained at the end of the day. It could be art adjacent and it could have nothing to do with art at all. And then use some of your other waking hours to create just for you. Money and value are not the same thing. You can be a billionaire and still be a miserable egomaniac who's never going to be satisfied. Or you can live simply. You can draw in a handmade sketchbook with a cheap pen every day, and you can feel like the richest person who ever lived. Take it from me. By the way, the idea for this video came from a recent essay that I wrote. And if you found it interesting, you can subscribe and you can get ideas like this for free every Friday. Just sign up at dannysessays.com and I'll send you something that I think will enrich your life. Enjoy and thanks for listening. Bye-bye.