If artists can’t ‘art’ any more, who will?
The Mill’s CityMag writer in residence, Steph Daughtry, shares the struggles of the creative mind.
Firstly can I just say, writing is hard bloody work. Before the writing even begins, you need to identify a new theme, a message that feels of the moment but also timeless.
Preferably something that makes people feel like they’ve been opened up to a new idea or concept that, perhaps for a little while, helps make sense of everyday life. Because if writers and artists don’t do it, who will?
Meanwhile I’m thinking about how my back hurts and my coffee is getting cold and that my parking expires in 30 minutes. Plus I have a PhD to complete, a creative practice to continue ignoring – oh, and my real estate agent is checking out the cracks in my walls on Friday and I haven’t vacuumed in weeks.
In an attempt to generate new ideas I find myself looking over pages of old notes for inspiration. Now I’m rewatching a four-hour YouTube essay about plagiarism because it made me feel something back when it hit in 2023 (and, my god, how is it already August 2025?):
“You might be mystified why someone would copy stuff for a review … But it turns out writing a review is really difficult … Creative people often have trouble recognising their skills as skills because eventually they feel like second nature and they don’t feel real or practical … but this stuff actually is really valuable. If it wasn’t, people wouldn’t be stealing it.” Hbomberguy, Plagiarism and You(Tube), 39:34
This makes me feel something about the value of the arts. Something that feels … of the moment but also timeless. Because I’ve read the recent studies that speak to the arts being in crisis. Detailing how people are leaving the sector because there is no tangible career path and the costs of living are too high.
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I’m an example of someone who has had to put their theatre practice on ice to take a breath for a minute. And in that breath pursue a research project looking into the viability of professional practice in the arts – just asking for a friend – because there’s no cure to burnout like taking on a PhD.
It is worth noting, however, that an eight-year arts practice of self-directed work, intense time management, frugal budgeting, risk-taking and unabating imposter syndrome are worthy skills to have when heading into a doctorate program.
Furthermore, in contrast to my career as a theatre practitioner, what I don’t have to contend with for the three years of my academic scholarship is the need to secure a new grant, fellowship, residency or commission in order to source my next paycheck. Even if that paycheck is below minimum wage.
Looking these facts square in the face it’s easy to ask, why continue an arts practice at all? Why not just find another career path when it is so clearly documented that artists on average earn less than a quarter of what similarly educated professionals earn through their practice alone?
And almost $20 000 per annum less than the average Australian wage even when other forms of income are taken into account.
This is a common conversation among artists, actually. When the curtain falls and the applause fades you might catch us in hallways after gigs whispering wide-eyed to each other: “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this”. Because a liveable wage starts to sound pretty darn cute once you hit 30.
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But those who continue to face these challenges do so because they believe their work is important. And that the meaning they find in their work is worth fighting for, even against all those odds. And sometimes because we need to question those odds.
Because the arts are valuable, right? On March 31, the Premier even invited a bunch of people into the square in front of the Lion Arts Centre just to tell us how valuable the arts are to society. What was it he said? Something about the arts being the antidote to the poison of contemporary division? OK, no pressure then.
And while I’m conscious of biting the hand that feeds me, it seems pretty clear that if people are already fighting over an ever-decreasing piece of the pie, if you’re not willing to make that pie much (much) bigger, then the barriers to practice that artists are facing aren’t going anywhere any time soon.
At this point a fellow resident at The Mill walks into the room and tells me about how he got a hole-in-one at golf today, which is pretty remarkable, and what did I get up to? I tell him I’ve been rereading articles and rewatching old YouTube videos. I’m overwhelmed and I believe in the work I’m doing but I don’t know how to write about it.
Also, I’m worried that when I lay it out like that, it will seem frivolous and everyone telling me to get a “real job” will have been right.
This fellow resident rolls over in his office chair and tells me that maybe the reason it all feels unclear is because it is important and it is happening right now. That maybe what I’m thinking about and feeling is, like, of the moment. Even timeless.
When you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to determine the wood from the trees. And as an artist hell bent on challenging societal norms, I can admit that barriers have the capacity to foster exciting and innovative new practices and new ideas. But at what point do these barriers become just … barriers?
Barriers which, if set too high, will continue to see artists leave their practice behind for greener pastures.
And the question that remains is, are we OK with that? Because, at the end of the day, if artists can’t do it any more, who will?
Steph Daughtry is TheMill/CityMag writer in residence.
