(no subject)
I’ve seen a lot of greatness in my travels. In India, they broadcast entire concerts devoted to regional classical arts on morning television. In Japan, they rehearse passionately for hours upon hours. When they perform, it is truly from the heart. In Italy, Germany and France, music is revered, and their musicians are subsidized by the government. In rural America, students gather and play wearing their Sunday best.
In Los Angeles, they chew you up, and spit you out. We musicians cannot make a reasonable living. Even the brightest and most talented are often having to decide whether they can afford to sleep, or practice for Friday night’s performance, risking their health to do so. Many of us are steps away from homelessness. Even the award-winning artists still live with their parents. An award won’t pay your rent or guarantee food on the table.
I watched my friend Daniel die from cancer. Union card be damned. He joined the guild three years ago but couldn’t afford to put food on the table. Then, he got a cancer diagnosis. The union couldn’t help him in the end. We raised money so that his wife wasn’t left with a mountain of medical bills. He passed days after his daughter was born too, it was unbelievably tragic.
New York isn’t much better. My year there meant two full time jobs and sharing a studio with two others. We didn’t even have a bathroom, and I had to sell my instrument just to pay rent! Nearly everyone I knew who moved to Manhattan gave up a year later and went home. My best friend Kelly gave up conducting orchestras to work in a Sprint store. My ex-girlfriend gave up theater to become an investment banker. The arts simply aren’t appreciated enough there.
Because the arts are dying, I’ve decided to ghost this fallen city. I’m leaving before this cutthroat place claims me too. You don’t see what’s beneath the bridge, but the tent cities are growing, and no one can afford to spare even a dime. I lost my friend Trish to the tents two months ago. She had an angelic voice, but even angelic voices starve if they’re not fed, and her single bedroom apartment in Culver City was $2000 a month. In a bad part of Culver to boot.
Don’t bother looking. I’m not here anymore. I’m on the next flight off this sickly rock. Funny, even the Space Force needs people to play in their band! That’s right, I said it. When the landlord posted an eviction notice on my door Saturday, I realized there was only one thing to do. I enlisted, and while it will be a few years before we hit the stars, I’ll be at Schriever learning space craft mechanics, and conducting the band. Besides, Colorado Springs, Colorado isn’t that horrible of a place, right? I mean, other than the white supremacists and all.
Before you laugh and try to talk me out of it, please consider this- we’re going to war with someone at some point soon, and defense is a lucrative industry. Sure, I’ll have to learn how to maintain military machinery, and I’ll be saddled with 101 Sousa marches for at least a few years, if not the rest of my life. And I may emerge from this whole thing with PTSD, if we do actually go to war. Or I may emerge from this whole thing with PTSD from playing too many Sousa marches. But I’ll have a roof over my head, and some semblance of food to eat. Heck, they’ll even pay me to hack at those Sousa marches!
I can and will do this! I’m already a seasoned sufferer from years at the conservatory playing all of that wretched music by Andrew Lloyd Webber for voice juries. I’ve suffered through years of Stephen Foster, and I endured a trial by fire at opera camp with THE WORST composer of the lot, Richard Wagner. One look at a deceptive cadence, or a Picardy third, and I no longer spontaneously burst into tears. Playing Hanon at the piano makes my hair fall out, and don’t even get me started on how Mathers makes me spontaneously barf, but I CAN HACK IT!
I know that this is not greatness, and I may never see greatness in future travels across the globe. Maybe I will see something wonderful if we ever reach the stars, but it doesn't matter anymore. Whatever the Space Force throws at me is a small price to pay if it means not dying alone and destitute somewhere on 7th Avenue.
Author's note: This is a work of fiction, but references actual examples of events that affect many performers who reside in the United States. It is true that artists do not make livable wages in America, and many of us work multiple jobs just to make ends meet. To complicate things, in California, there is a lot of confusion over AB 5, a law which is supposed to reform labor work, but has caused an uproar in the performing arts communities across the state. AB 5 went into effect January 1, and paid opportunities for artists have stalled, because of the confusion. Some lawyers are fighting for clarity, while others are fighting to overturn the law completely, which was supposed to protect workers in the gig economy. Everyone is unsure how to proceed from here. This piece was written to bring attention to a state issue, and to the fact that in the USA, the arts are simply dying. Cordial discussion is welcome. Suggestions for artists to "get real jobs" is not. Thank you for reading.
In Los Angeles, they chew you up, and spit you out. We musicians cannot make a reasonable living. Even the brightest and most talented are often having to decide whether they can afford to sleep, or practice for Friday night’s performance, risking their health to do so. Many of us are steps away from homelessness. Even the award-winning artists still live with their parents. An award won’t pay your rent or guarantee food on the table.
I watched my friend Daniel die from cancer. Union card be damned. He joined the guild three years ago but couldn’t afford to put food on the table. Then, he got a cancer diagnosis. The union couldn’t help him in the end. We raised money so that his wife wasn’t left with a mountain of medical bills. He passed days after his daughter was born too, it was unbelievably tragic.
New York isn’t much better. My year there meant two full time jobs and sharing a studio with two others. We didn’t even have a bathroom, and I had to sell my instrument just to pay rent! Nearly everyone I knew who moved to Manhattan gave up a year later and went home. My best friend Kelly gave up conducting orchestras to work in a Sprint store. My ex-girlfriend gave up theater to become an investment banker. The arts simply aren’t appreciated enough there.
Because the arts are dying, I’ve decided to ghost this fallen city. I’m leaving before this cutthroat place claims me too. You don’t see what’s beneath the bridge, but the tent cities are growing, and no one can afford to spare even a dime. I lost my friend Trish to the tents two months ago. She had an angelic voice, but even angelic voices starve if they’re not fed, and her single bedroom apartment in Culver City was $2000 a month. In a bad part of Culver to boot.
Don’t bother looking. I’m not here anymore. I’m on the next flight off this sickly rock. Funny, even the Space Force needs people to play in their band! That’s right, I said it. When the landlord posted an eviction notice on my door Saturday, I realized there was only one thing to do. I enlisted, and while it will be a few years before we hit the stars, I’ll be at Schriever learning space craft mechanics, and conducting the band. Besides, Colorado Springs, Colorado isn’t that horrible of a place, right? I mean, other than the white supremacists and all.
Before you laugh and try to talk me out of it, please consider this- we’re going to war with someone at some point soon, and defense is a lucrative industry. Sure, I’ll have to learn how to maintain military machinery, and I’ll be saddled with 101 Sousa marches for at least a few years, if not the rest of my life. And I may emerge from this whole thing with PTSD, if we do actually go to war. Or I may emerge from this whole thing with PTSD from playing too many Sousa marches. But I’ll have a roof over my head, and some semblance of food to eat. Heck, they’ll even pay me to hack at those Sousa marches!
I can and will do this! I’m already a seasoned sufferer from years at the conservatory playing all of that wretched music by Andrew Lloyd Webber for voice juries. I’ve suffered through years of Stephen Foster, and I endured a trial by fire at opera camp with THE WORST composer of the lot, Richard Wagner. One look at a deceptive cadence, or a Picardy third, and I no longer spontaneously burst into tears. Playing Hanon at the piano makes my hair fall out, and don’t even get me started on how Mathers makes me spontaneously barf, but I CAN HACK IT!
I know that this is not greatness, and I may never see greatness in future travels across the globe. Maybe I will see something wonderful if we ever reach the stars, but it doesn't matter anymore. Whatever the Space Force throws at me is a small price to pay if it means not dying alone and destitute somewhere on 7th Avenue.
Author's note: This is a work of fiction, but references actual examples of events that affect many performers who reside in the United States. It is true that artists do not make livable wages in America, and many of us work multiple jobs just to make ends meet. To complicate things, in California, there is a lot of confusion over AB 5, a law which is supposed to reform labor work, but has caused an uproar in the performing arts communities across the state. AB 5 went into effect January 1, and paid opportunities for artists have stalled, because of the confusion. Some lawyers are fighting for clarity, while others are fighting to overturn the law completely, which was supposed to protect workers in the gig economy. Everyone is unsure how to proceed from here. This piece was written to bring attention to a state issue, and to the fact that in the USA, the arts are simply dying. Cordial discussion is welcome. Suggestions for artists to "get real jobs" is not. Thank you for reading.