SPOKANE

On Starving Artists and the Hunger for Meaning

I often find myself sitting in my office or at a career fair, across from another parent—concerned, skeptical, searching, and wondering, full of doubt. Their child, unsure and distracted, wants to study art. I’ve been pulled aside during department tours several times, and with a face of concern, the question always appears:

What can they do with this degree? What are the tools you give them for the future? They can do a double major with something worthwhile to help support them, right?

Even after showing examples of successful alumni and the opportunities students have, their minds are already made up. Their faces show disbelief that their children are making the right decision—or even a conscious, independent one.

The Weight of the Stereotype

“The starving artist.” It’s a phrase I’ve heard from at least a dozen parents who pull me aside while touring the department. Yet each time, it lands with the same dull weight and familiar irritation. They ask how we offer guarantees to their kids in the classroom to prevent that socially misunderstood narrative. I didn’t know what to answer then, but now I have examples to share—perhaps enough to open their understanding a bit. A parent once blamed TikTok for their son’s growing passion for comics and his desire to create graphic novels—going so far as to request that the university offer sequential art classes specifically for him, with specifications on business and publishing so he could “get a job in the real world.”

Starving artist—as if choosing a life of creativity and critical thought is synonymous with choosing poverty and suffering. It especially hurts when an art student jokes uses it to make a joke while I reach for a cookie (this might have inspired this blog entry).

I’m tired of that stereotype. I’m tired of the dismissiveness it carries—the way it reduces an entire field of human endeavor to a cautionary tale.

Many of these ideas stem from tragic, real examples: artists who only sold one painting in their lifetime, who died alone, or who turned to addiction to cope with the burden of genius. Some were later deified by the same art markets that commodified their pain and used it to launder money on a large global scale.

The idea that artists are used by a system that benefits from their work and passion—treating it as entertainment, self-improvement, beauty, vanity, or even a means to elevate status—is often what devalues their contribution. Often diiminishing efforts to something simplified like a hobbie for pain. It's like when someone at a fancy cocktail party asking a curator friend, with an air of superiority and disingenuous surprise, “Oh, so you get paid just for having good taste?” The answer, in the words of Rick Rubin: “Absolutely-fucking YES!”

It also makes you wonder—is suffering the essential ingredient to success?

Because the most important artists the general public remembers seem to share something in common: a tragic life.

What About “Starving Scientists”?

No one talks about “starving scientists” or “starving architects.” We know those paths are complex, too. We accept it. We respect it. I wonder if a calculus professor ever hears the same excuse I get from students: “I’ve never drawn before—consider that when grading me.” The effort put into a drawing is often judged by talent, not the learned skills that require practice and persistence. Yet we accept that technical disciplines require years of development. Why doesn’t the same standard apply to the arts?

Why is it that when someone struggles in a creative field, we blame the choice itself—but not the strategies, education, or tools that could support their success?

I have a cousin who many believed was destined to be a farmer even himself, yet he set out to earn a degree in Physics—not out of love for the subject, but to prove to his mother that a college education could be a symbol of respect and success. He would have been the first in his immediate family to attend college. For five difficult years, he struggled through a field he never truly connected with, driven more by societal expectations and the perceived prestige of a “hard” subject than by personal passion. In the end, he walked away from the degree and returned to what had always brought him fulfillment: cultivating high-quality food and raising livestock.

Ironically, even though those years yielded little more than frustration, they gave his mother a sense of pride because he had attempted something challenging. Looking back, he admits he never loved Physics; he chose it because others said it was impressive. Had he been truer to himself, he might have studied veterinary science or botany—fields that aligned with his passion and could have enhanced his life’s work. But like many, he was steered by stereotypes, not self-awareness. Fast forward to today—he’s a successful rancher.

One of the most valuable lessons often found in art classes, especially in printmaking, is embracing mistakes as learning opportunities. The process rewards creative problem-solving and persistence, driven by the promise of a visual payoff that keeps you coming back (even addictively). You experiment, play with materials, share discoveries—gradually building a deeper understanding of the medium, an understanding that can seem almost magical to the untrained eye.

This practice of resilience and exploration translates beyond the studio; when applied to any career, it helps you carve out a path that aligns with your values and priorities, defined by you.

A Hunger Beyond Food

In the United States, the issue isn't usually a lack of food (although that’s still true in food deserts lacking access to fresh, quality products)—it’s a hunger for purpose, meaning, and connection. That kind of hunger is a powerful motivator. It forces us to be inventive and build something that matters, which often isn’t tied to a dollar sign.

I recently heard on a financial podcast that many high-earning individuals (specifically doctors) struggle, because high salaries don’t always correlate with financial literacy. I mean—take it with a grain of salt, it was a podcast—but the thought was interesting. The years spent waiting for that “big paycheck” often lead people to play catch-up for the rest of their lives, burdened by student loans, delayed financial planning, and lifestyle inflation.

I’m not saying that struggle is exclusive to doctors. But it’s striking how they remain a cultural symbol of success, while an artist who lives modestly but meaningfully through their work is still viewed as a cautionary tale. I'm not comparing the societal value of these careers—I'm focusing on the financial perception. Why is simplicity in the arts seen as failure, while struggle in other fields is considered a noble investment?

On a related note: If financial stability is truly what you seek why aren't you more encouraging trade schools? Plumbers and electricians earn strong incomes, often without debt, and they’re in constant demand. Yet those careers, too, lack prestige—simply because they don’t fit into society’s narrow definition of success.

Redefining Success (and Examples of Art Badassery)

I know science majors and lawyers who’ve walked away from their fields to downsize and become jewelry makers or artisan bread bakers—selling at weekend markets with joy and a sense of renewal. I know many independent artists—managing their own time, living on their own terms, and enjoying a kind of creative freedom most careers don’t offer. I know curators who live debt-free, meaningful lives in Asia, running artist residencies and traveling the world—often joking from a rooftop pool, “Don’t get into the arts, they said.”

I can give you an example of a powerhouse art organizer in our city who has made a tremendous impact. She founded a nonprofit that offers tangible opportunities for artists—13-week business development programs, storefronts for selling artwork, seasonal art fairs, and a professional network. Her belief in the arts, and her relentless work to uplift others, has made the city a better place. Her next project—a dedicated arts facility—has the potential to put our city on the national map. What was once a place where talent left for bigger cities is now becoming a creative hub—where students stay to continue building something lasting.

I also know two incredible artists—amazing friends and just the best kind of people—who chose to be full-time artists, even though they had the skills to earn more in commercial work. They made the decision to live below their means, pay off their house, and define success as a supportive community where love prevails, and where they have access to make the art they truly care about. Hearing them reflect on working with clients like Adobe, Alaska Airlines, Facebook, and Google—and not seeing those as their greatest achievements—was humbling. For them, success isn’t status; it’s being surrounded by people who care, while doing meaningful work. That perspective blew my mind.

I’ve seen artists rehabilitate communities in Haiti by building artisan centers with recycled materials, raising thousands of dollars, and transforming lives in places the world often forgets. Artists often revitalize neglected neighborhoods—though that sometimes sparks gentrification, displacing the very people who contributed to the transformation.

Look at Philadelphia’s mural culture and how it’s helped reshape identity and pride. Or explore Favela Painting in Brazil, where large-scale murals have reclaimed neighborhoods. In Chiang Mai, Thailand, printmaking studios, galleries, and residencies give artists full agency over how they create and sell work. In Oaxaca, the Pasaporte Gráfico project is used printmaking to teach and raise community voices and instruct people on how printmaking support their people during the 2006 protests. In Puerto Rico, artists have long used screenprinting for public health education and political commentary—an artistic response to the island’s ongoing status as a modern colony.

These are a few of the stories I share with my students—to help them understand what art can do, how it has shaped our world, and how it continues to write our shared human history through creativity and collaboration.

At the same time, there’s the other side of the coin. I know art professors who struggle to make ends meet because their practice is financially draining and disconnected from their teaching gigs. And I know individual artists who earn more than lawyers or professors—through murals, ceramics, design, and sheer hustle.

In the end, it all depends. Everyone is different. That’s the point. We need to allow for nuance and give people the benefit of the doubt. There’s a path to fulfillment in the arts—but whether a degree is required for it varies. Much depends on the individual—their skills, drive, and persistence.

There are so many versions of “making it.” Each person must define that through honest reflection and self-awareness. I expose my students to this spectrum of success through studio visits and guest artists. But as a culture, we still cling to stories of failure—maybe as a form of self-preservation, or maybe because we love drama. We repeat the warnings: Art is too risky, too uncertain, too painful.

But is that really about the arts? Or is it our discomfort with ambiguity?

Stop Asking for Guarantees

I see these parents, and I understand them. They want their youngsters to be successful, stable, and to build on their legacy—and I respect that. But that’s exactly why I’m surprised they don’t see the parallel in their own story: it was their own hard work, discipline, and connections that got them where they are. So why can’t that same effort apply to a creative career?

At my institution, more and more students are double majoring in business “just for the safety net.” And I get it. But I also wonder: How many of them become proficient in business? How many understand entrepreneurship, pricing, or sustainability—beyond the buzzwords?

There’s a fundamental misunderstanding of what we teach in the arts—and the value of this education. To be clear, college isn’t for everyone. But studying art isn’t an easy way out. It’s a path that demands vision, resilience, and the ability to create meaning in uncertainty.

Art is a career—not a fallback plan or whimsical dream. It’s a discipline. One with rigor, with potential. But its success doesn’t always appear in LinkedIn titles. It shows up in persistence, in beautified streets, in museum shows, in wearables, in teaching, in empowered communities.

The doubt around art often masks a deeper fear: that maybe they wouldn’t have the self-accountability to push through the ambiguity. And still, I feel the pressure to convince parents—though less so now—that this path is valid. But I can’t guarantee their child’s success. I haven’t seen their portfolio. I haven’t seen their hunger.

So why do we expect guarantees from art that we never ask of any other field?

Rethinking the “Starving Artist”

What I can offer is honesty. The arts are a space of radical possibility. They’re also a space where failure is necessary. Where mistakes are tools. Where the reward lies in finding your voice, your collaborators, and your meaning.

So maybe the question isn’t how to avoid becoming a “starving artist.” Maybe it’s: Are we willing to feed the part of ourselves that refuses to settle? That needs to make. That hungers for meaning.

Because that hunger isn’t a flaw. It’s a sign that we’re still alive—still wondering, still becoming, still making beautiful things in the world because they matter. And they are worth living for.