Real Artists Don’t Starve

Real Artists Don’t Starve Plot Summary

Introduction

The sun had just begun to set over the historic district of Florence when a young researcher stumbled upon an extraordinary discovery in the dusty archives of the city's financial records. There, hidden among centuries-old documents, was irrefutable evidence that Michelangelo—the quintessential tortured artist in our collective imagination—had actually been extraordinarily wealthy. This revelation sent ripples through the art world, challenging the persistent myth of the starving artist that has discouraged countless creative spirits from pursuing their passion professionally. This myth of creative poverty has become so embedded in our culture that we accept it without question. We nod knowingly when parents discourage their children from art school, when writers struggle in cramped apartments, or when musicians play for tips. But what if this narrative is fundamentally flawed? What if the truly successful artists throughout history weren't those who suffered for their craft, but those who understood how to navigate the marketplace while maintaining their creative integrity? The pages ahead explore how creative professionals can break free from outdated paradigms and build sustainable, fulfilling careers by mastering not just their craft, but also their mindset, their network, and their approach to money.

Chapter 1: The Myth of the Starving Artist: Michelangelo's Hidden Fortune

In 1995, Syracuse University professor Rab Hatfield made an unexpected discovery while researching the Sistine Chapel. While trying to match painting scenes to dates through payment records, he found something astonishing in Florence's city archives. Michelangelo, long portrayed as a struggling artist who sacrificed comfort for his art, was actually extraordinarily wealthy. Bank records revealed a fortune worth roughly $47 million in today's currency, making him the richest artist of the Renaissance. This discovery directly contradicted the image Michelangelo himself had cultivated. The master sculptor had written in poetry that his art had left him "poor, old and working as a servant of others." He lived frugally and often complained about money. Yet his bank accounts told a different story—one of remarkable financial success that history had somehow overlooked. Two centuries after Michelangelo's death, Henri Murger published "Scènes de la vie de bohème," stories that romanticized artistic poverty. This work, which later inspired operas and films, effectively launched the concept of the "Starving Artist" into public consciousness, overshadowing examples like Michelangelo's success. This narrative became so powerful that even today, we advise aspiring creatives: "Be careful. Don't be too creative. You just might starve." The consequences of this myth are profound. Many talented individuals take safer routes, becoming lawyers instead of actresses, bankers instead of poets, doctors instead of painters. We hedge our bets against our true calling, believing the falsehood that creative work must equate to financial struggle. But during the Renaissance, Michelangelo demonstrated that an artist could achieve remarkable financial success and social standing while creating masterpieces. The truth is that Michelangelo didn't suffer for his creations, and neither should today's artists. He was both a brilliant creator and a savvy entrepreneur who understood his worth. His example challenges us to question whether creative professionals must choose between authentic expression and financial stability. Throughout history, the most enduring artists weren't those who embraced poverty but those who mastered both their craft and the business of art. They created systems that allowed their work to thrive—financially, culturally, and artistically. These weren't compromises but strategic approaches that gave them freedom to create on their own terms.

Chapter 2: Reimagining Your Artistic Identity: Adrian Cardenas' Brave Transition

Adrian Cardenas grew up in Miami as the son of Cuban immigrants who had fled Castro's regime. Baseball became his ticket to a new life, a natural progression from one league to the next as his talent developed. By 2006, he had won Baseball America's High School Player of the Year award and was drafted by the Phillies. In 2012, he reached the majors with the Chicago Cubs, making more money than he or his immigrant parents ever dreamed possible. He had followed the conventional path to success—get a good job, excel at it, and work hard until retirement. There was just one problem: he no longer wanted it. During his first year at Wrigley Field, something felt wrong. In the minors, teammates had teased him for reading Tolstoy in the locker room. In the majors, his idea of celebration—playing Gershwin on the piano—contrasted sharply with his teammates' partying. The more he lived this life, the more he felt like a misfit. While pursuing one dream, he had abandoned another—his love for writing and storytelling. His parents had given him piano lessons hoping he might attend Juilliard, and he had always loved literature. In 2012, the same year he played his first major league game, Adrian Cardenas left baseball to tell stories. When everything seemed stable and secure, he completely reinvented himself—the scariest but ultimately best decision he could have made. This represents the Rule of Re-creation: you are not born an artist, you become one. At any point in your story, you can reimagine the narrative you're living. You can become the person you want to be, even if that means adopting an entirely new identity. When Adrian found himself trapped between two worlds—the secure but unfulfilling baseball career and his creative aspirations—he made a choice that mirrors what his parents had done in leaving Cuba. Both generations faced seemingly inescapable situations, both were told by peers they should comply, and both found freedom through daring action. Shortly after leaving baseball, Adrian joined his father on a trip to Cuba, where Juan Cardenas showed his son the locations of multiple escape attempts and the route that finally helped him flee. Adrian later published articles about this experience in prestigious publications like the New Yorker and the New York Times, finally realizing his dream of telling stories professionally. The creative life often requires breaking rules and forging new paths. Research by psychologist Paul Torrance showed that creative individuals tend to struggle in systems that force compliance with rules they don't understand. "Creative kids have no patience with ridiculous rules," said Bonnie Cramond, a former student of Torrance. Following the rules rarely produces outstanding creative work—sometimes it pays to be a little deviant. Before you can create great art, you must first create yourself. This means letting go of who you were before and accepting a new identity, walking away from expectations in exchange for something better. The moment we begin to believe we deserve success is the very moment it begins to elude us.

Chapter 3: Finding Your Creative Community: From Hemingway to Modern Scenes

When a young Ernest Hemingway returned home after serving as a paramedic in World War I, he was directionless and heartbroken. At the suggestion of novelist Sherwood Anderson, Hemingway and his new wife Hadley moved to Paris because "it was where the most interesting people in the world lived." The foreign correspondence work would pay the bills while he developed his writing, and they could live modestly while still traveling. In Paris's Latin Quarter, the Hemingways found a small community of intellectuals and expatriates. Through Anderson's introductions, they met soon-to-be-famous authors and artists who became close friends. Every morning, Hemingway would walk along the Seine, watching fishermen pull their catch from the water before stopping at a café to write. In his spare time, he exchanged boxing lessons for writing tips with Ezra Pound. At the Closerie de Lilas or Les Deux Magots, he sometimes spotted James Joyce or bumped into F. Scott Fitzgerald, who introduced him to editor Maxwell Perkins. In the evenings, he visited Gertrude Stein to hear her lecture on buying paintings rather than clothes. Hemingway spent most of his twenties in this community—later called "The Lost Generation"—living modestly but surrounded by brilliance. These experiences fueled his writing and eventually became the basis for "The Sun Also Rises," the novel that made him famous. When he returned to America seven years later, Hemingway had transformed from a skilled but unknown writer into a household name. This transformation illustrates what professor Richard Florida calls "the most important factor in the success of your career: where you decide to live." Places and people shape creative success far more than we realize. As psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi wrote, "Creativity is more likely in places where new ideas require less effort to be perceived." When musician Patti Smith was asked why New York attracted creatives in the 1970s, she replied, "It was cheap to live here, really cheap. There were so many of us, so many like minds." Creative people are drawn to places where they feel understood and where their work is encouraged. These scenes can dramatically accelerate creative development. This principle applies beyond geographic locations. Hank Willis Thomas discovered its power in art school, which he initially attended just to avoid getting a job. After his cousin was murdered in 2000, he began using photography to process his grief. When his studies ended in 2004, he realized the most valuable thing he'd gained wasn't technical skill but connections—a network of fellow students who became curators, collectors, dealers, and other art world professionals. His first art sale came through this network—to the son of a dean at NYU's Tisch School. Soon, his reputation spread, and Hank was making a living from his art. "All my great opportunities have come from friends," he explains. "You really only need one or two good advocates. That's the formula for success." The starving artist myth portrays creativity as a solitary pursuit, but great work rarely emerges in isolation. It develops through communities that challenge, support, and amplify our efforts. By deliberately placing ourselves in vibrant creative environments—whether physical locations or professional networks—we dramatically increase our chances of sustainable success.

Chapter 4: The Business of Art: Why Real Artists Don't Work for Free

When Melissa Dinwiddie started creating visual art, making money was the furthest thing from her mind. Soon, however, she began fantasizing about turning her art into a business. Her first commission came when a friend asked her to create a gift piece. Melissa didn't want to charge, but her friend insisted, and they settled on twenty-five dollars. Though she spent forty hours on that piece—effectively earning less than a dollar per hour—the transaction changed everything. "It was the first time I put that equation together, that my cartoons could equal money," she said. "From that moment on, I knew my only job was to create work I cared about and then put it out into the world for sale." After her divorce, Melissa realized she needed her art to provide more than just emotional fulfillment—she needed income. Her custom ketubah art (Jewish wedding documents featuring beautiful calligraphy) transitioned to selling ketubah prints, which eventually led to helping others find and reclaim their creative passions. Today, besides selling her art online, she runs an online community for women creatives, leads retreats, and conducts workshops and keynotes for organizations. "Other people may not like your art," she said, "or they may sneer at it for being 'commercial art' rather than 'fine art,' but for me, making a living from my art was indisputable proof that I was an artist. I am making a living, therefore nobody can dispute that I'm an artist." This experience confirms a crucial principle: at some point, you have to let people pay you. Creative success isn't just about getting to do your work without constraint—it's also about charging what you're worth. This brings dignity to your work, validates your offering to the world, and allows you to keep creating. A National Association of Colleges and Employers study revealed that unpaid internships don't give college graduates an advantage. In fact, students with unpaid internships received fewer job offers and lower starting salaries than those with no internship experience at all. Working for free isn't the "opportunity" we often think it is. Exposure won't put food on the table, and working for free sets a precedent that's hard to break. Science fiction writer Harlan Ellison put it bluntly when asked to contribute an interview for free: "By what right would you call me and ask me to work for nothing? Do you get a paycheck? Does your boss get a paycheck?" When told it would be "good publicity," he responded, "Lady, tell that to someone a little older than you who just fell off the turnip truck." His standard is clear: he never works for free, regardless of what others do. This principle has helped him publish over seventeen hundred stories, screenplays, and essays. Even Michelangelo understood this. When a priest asked him to paint an altarpiece and addressed him as simply "Michelangelo sculptor," the artist wrote to his nephew: "Tell the priest not to write to me any longer as 'Michelangelo sculptor,' because here I'm known only as Michelangelo Buonarroti... I was never a painter or a sculptor like one who keeps a shop." This wasn't mere pride; it was about being valued properly for his skills. As creative professionals, we must value our work before others will. When we undervalue our creations, we end up resenting clients and projects. "When I notice myself resenting my clients and wanting to quit," Melissa advises, "I realize I don't need to quit. I just need to raise my prices. If you're feeling resentment at all, you're charging too little."

Chapter 5: Building a Diversified Portfolio: Lessons from Modern Masters

In 1987, Mark Frauenfelder read an article about the indie magazine revolution and thought, "We've got to do a zine ourselves." The next year, while working as a mechanical engineer, he and his wife started Boing Boing, a pop culture and technology publication. This side project was just for fun, but it planted the seeds for a diverse creative career. In 1993, Mark joined Wired magazine without any formal journalism experience. He launched their first website and became acquisitions editor for their book publishing division—all while continuing Boing Boing on the side. By 2005, he had founded another magazine called Make, covering technology projects and the growing "maker" movement. Ten years later, he self-published a book about magic tricks. Throughout this journey, he has also worked as an artist, with his work appearing in exhibitions and commercial projects, including designing the cover art for Billy Idol's album Cyberpunk. "For better or for worse," Mark explains, "I am really interested in a lot of different things, and trying things out myself to see what it's like to actually experience producing media or other things is always interesting." This approach exemplifies the Rule of the Portfolio: the Starving Artist believes she must master a single skill, whereas the Thriving Artist builds a diverse body of work. In the Renaissance, people embraced the intersection of different disciplines, and those who blended them best were called "masters." Today's "gig economy" creates opportunities for versatile creators to thrive as never before. Michelangelo embodied this principle perfectly. At age forty, he undertook architecture, designing St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Later in life, he oversaw construction projects with hundreds of assistants, essentially functioning as a CEO. He was more than a sculptor or painter—every decade or so, he tackled a new skill, reinventing himself and expanding his portfolio. He even wrote poetry in his spare time. As historian William Wallace notes, "Michelangelo is a major poet as well as a major artist... To have that capacity means you have a brain flexibility that allows you to move between word and image." This versatility gave Michelangelo an edge. Dr. Darya Zabelina calls this a "leaky mental filter"—the ability to hold multiple conflicting ideas in tension so they can build upon each other. "People with leaky attention might be able to notice things that others don't notice or see connections between things," she explains, "which might lead to a creative idea or creative thought." Michael Jackson demonstrated similar versatility when, in 1985, he paid $47.5 million for a music catalog containing 250 Beatles songs. Industry insiders thought this was a distraction from his flourishing performance career. But Jackson's instincts told him to diversify, and that catalog later increased in value by more than 1,000 percent. "I once talked to him for over an hour," said entertainment attorney Donald David, "and he just knew the music business front to back. And he had good instincts. He had really good instincts." This pattern appears repeatedly among successful creative professionals. Dr. Dre transitioned from rapper to record label founder to headphone company creator, eventually becoming a billionaire through Beats Electronics. Each skill built upon previous ones, creating a portfolio that vastly outperformed what a single-focused career could have provided. Being distractible—having varied interests and pursuits—can actually be a creative strength when properly channeled. As therapist Chuck Chapman observes, "If you think about the most creative people, they're the ones who innovate. They come up with the ideas, and I think the fact that your brain is going so fast all the time and seeing so many possibilities—that's what creates innovation." By cultivating a portfolio mind-set, creative professionals focus on building a diverse body of work rather than perfecting a single creation. This approach creates resilience against market changes and opens opportunities that specialists might miss.

Chapter 6: Ownership and Control: Protecting Your Creative Legacy

In 1962, Jim Henson created several puppets for Purina Dog Chow commercials, including one that would become Rowlf the dog. His studio billed the company $1,500 for building the puppets. After filming, Purina offered Henson $100,000 to buy the rights to Rowlf completely. His agent nearly jumped at the offer, but Henson warned him: "Bernie, never sell anything I own." He kept Rowlf, almost forgetting about him until 1976 when the puppet joined the cast of the Muppets. Today, Rowlf is worth far more than that original offer. This exemplifies the Rule of Ownership: the Starving Artist sells out to an early bidder, but the Thriving Artist holds out and owns as much of his work as possible. Our job as creatives is not only to create great works but to protect them, resisting the temptation to sell out too soon for a quick payday. In 2003, Jay-Z faced a similar decision. Universal and Warner Music were both offering him executive positions. Universal proposed making him president of Def Jam Records with a contract worth $8-10 million annually. Warner countered with an even higher salary plus a cut of their upcoming IPO. The decision seemed difficult until Jay-Z learned that under Def Jam's contract, his master recordings would revert to him within ten years—he would own all his music outright. Despite the lower immediate pay, Jay-Z chose Def Jam. "It's an offer you can't refuse," he explained. "I could say to my son or daughter, or my nephews if I never have kids, 'Here's my whole collection of recordings. I own those, they're yours.'" He was thinking long-term about his creative legacy. John Lasseter's story provides another powerful example of choosing creative control over immediate rewards. After being fired from Disney for pushing computer animation too aggressively, he joined a small division of Lucasfilm that eventually became Pixar. When Disney later tried to rehire him at quadruple his previous salary, he refused. Why work for a company that had rejected his vision? Instead, Lasseter maintained creative independence at Pixar, eventually directing Toy Story. When the film became a massive success and Pixar went public, the company was valued at over a billion dollars. By refusing to sell out his creative vision, Lasseter helped create something far more valuable than a high-paying job would have provided. George Lucas demonstrated similar wisdom when producing The Empire Strikes Back. Rather than accepting studio financing, he invested $20 million of his own money from Star Wars profits. This allowed him to negotiate a radically better deal with 20th Century Fox, securing up to 77% of gross profits, all TV rights, 90% of merchandising profits, and complete creative control. When Fox executives asked who would write, direct, and star in Empire, Lucas simply replied, "None of your business." The film grossed four times what Star Wars did on opening weekend and ultimately made over half a billion dollars worldwide. Because Lucas took the risk, he reaped the reward, establishing a pattern he would follow throughout his career. He never left the fate of his creative work to anyone but himself. This principle applies to all creative fields. "The object," Lucas said, "is to try and make the system work for you, instead of against you." No one has a more vested interest in your success than you do. Ownership can be costly in the short term, but it's invaluable in the long term, giving you options and control over your creative destiny. As musician Prince once put it, "If you don't own your masters, your master owns you."

Chapter 7: The Gift Economy: Making Money to Make Art

When Alan Bean stepped onto the lunar surface in November 1969 as the fourth human to walk on the moon, he could never have predicted his ultimate career path. The Apollo 12 astronaut and navy pilot had always been drawn to art, taking drawing and watercolor classes in his spare time despite colleagues warning that if he wanted to advance his military career, he should learn golf instead. After flying on Skylab 3 and training for the space shuttle, Alan had an epiphany: "Boy, there's young men and women around here who can do this as good as I can, but there's no one who's been given this gift of walking on the moon." Who else could paint the moon from firsthand experience? "If I could leave here and learn to be better, I could leave stories and images that wouldn't be done otherwise." In 1981, Alan left NASA to become a full-time artist—the first astronaut-artist and the only person in history to paint the moon from personal experience. When friends questioned sacrificing his expensive training, he responded: "I'm a guy who has done his duty his whole life. This is what I should be doing, because they won't miss me here. And if I don't do this, then a lot of these images and stories that I captured will be forgotten." Alan wasn't chasing a creative urge; he was answering a calling. But he knew that to fulfill this duty, he needed to make a living. "If I was going to devote my life to it, I somehow had to make a living doing it." He committed himself to painting, developing unique techniques that incorporated actual moon dust from his space suit and texture created with tools he had used on the lunar surface. Today, his paintings sell for tens of thousands of dollars, with some fetching over $200,000. This approach exemplifies what Lewis Hyde calls the "gift exchange economy" where creativity thrives. "The essential commerce of the creative spirit is a gift exchange economy," Hyde explains. Art is fundamentally a gift, not a commodity. However, since we live in a market economy, artists must find ways to get paid for their gifts. There are several approaches to resolving this tension. Some artists sell directly to the market. Others find patrons. Many, like Alan Bean, become their own patrons by finding ways to support their art. As former National Endowment for the Arts chairman Bill Ivey notes, "Art needs money. We can deny it all we want and pretend starving makes for better art, but starving often makes for no art at all." Walt Disney understood this principle perfectly: "I don't make pictures just to make money. I make money to make more pictures." Creative professionals need enough financial margin to focus on what matters to them. The goal isn't getting rich but having the freedom to create what they want. In 1930s Japan, street performers called kamishibaiya illustrated this principle beautifully. These artists traveled through cities with miniature stages mounted on bicycles, performing picture-based plays for children. They made a living selling candy to their young audience, which funded their art. The business made the creative side possible—and ironically, launched the manga industry, now worth billions globally. Alan Bean's approach to art exemplifies the Rule of the Gift: if art is your duty, then you must create, but to create sustainably, you must also make money. The Starving Artist despises the need for money, but the Thriving Artist uses money to make more art. "Money exists, in my world, to buy me another season," as novelist Steven Pressfield writes. Every season you create instead of scramble for work is a win, and with time, those seasons add up. In our world today, opportunities to do creative work that both pays the bills and gets noticed are unprecedented. With access to tools and technology we've never had before, this is truly the best time to be an artist—as long as we maintain the right relationship with money, seeing it as a means to making more art, rather than the end goal itself.

Summary

Throughout history, the most enduring artists have shattered the false dichotomy between creative integrity and financial success. From Michelangelo's hidden fortune to Dr. Dre's billion-dollar headphone empire, the evidence is clear: real artists don't starve—they thrive by mastering both their craft and the practical realities of the creative marketplace. The age of the Starving Artist is over, replaced by a New Renaissance where creators can build sustainable careers without sacrificing their vision. The journey toward creative prosperity begins with reimagining your identity, as baseball player Adrian Cardenas did when he left the major leagues to become a writer. It continues by finding your creative community, whether that's a vibrant scene like Hemingway's Paris or a professional network like Hank Willis Thomas built in art school. It requires valuing your work enough to charge appropriately, diversifying your skills beyond a single specialty, and fighting to maintain ownership of your creative assets. Most importantly, it means developing a healthy relationship with money—not as the purpose of your work, but as the fuel that allows your creative fire to burn brighter and longer. By embracing these principles, you don't just create better art—you create a better life, one where your gift to the world becomes sustainable for a lifetime.

About Author

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Jeff Goins

Jeff Goins is a writer, keynote speaker, and entrepreneur with a reputation for challenging the status quo. He is the best-selling author of five books including The Art of Work and Real Artists Don’t Starve. His award-winning blog Goinswriter.com is visited by millions of people every year, and his work has been featured in the Washington Post, USA Today, Entrepreneur, Forbes, Psychology Today, Business Insider, Time, and many others. Through his online courses, events, and coaching programs, he helps thousands of creatives succeed every year. A father of two and a guacamole aficionado, Jeff lives just outside of Nashville, Tennessee.

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