I Don’t Take Myself Too Seriously but Seriously Enough to Get Paid

Lately I’ve been thinking of taking over the world. Grabbing hold of its sides, shaking it and upending what it was used to. I’m still honest enough to believe you can make art and still make a living. The world as it is isn’t always open to that thought. So I must shake it up. My livelihood stems on creating new means for others to emote. Allowing myself to be a faucet, sitting in front of a blank page, an empty memory card, demand work and will determine whether or not my pockets run empty. And God forbid I’m ever only paid off hopes and dreams.

I tend to laugh as I talk and gesticulate with my hands. My writings initially come to me muddled and choppy before they connect to reflect gold. My photos take time to develop in my spirit as well as on the screen. It’s all instinctual and it’s taken me years to admit I’m pretty great at what I do. So how does one set a price on love? Not why. How?

In my city, many live off exposure and I Got Yous. Many a photographer has seen their work on pages and sites with little to no credit, or worse, their logo cropped and their images altered. We can be seen as whiners; special artistic snowflakes who should get used to the shaft because we chose this life. In our eyes, we’re simply being who we are and doing what we love, yet it is misconstrued to suggest existing as starving artists is par for the course. I call BS. I call to get paid and receive voicemails. Send out invoices into the abyss while I place my work in the RVA canon.

There’s enough work to go around and enough spoons for us all to eat. Being starved won’t crank out better work. There’s little lesson in being habitually broke while being praised for coming through with the goods. While my heart still jumps when a photo of mine is used as a profile picture or prime real estate on a flyer, when my poetry or essays are shared and commented on in detail, I know why the broke bird sings: it’s due to her cage needing coin to be fixed.