Yearning for a Creative Middle Class

I, in many ways, show up to work as a failed writer who found their way into advertising. I say “failed” loosely in that my ability to write, something you’re all witnessing right now, is put to use fairly regularly and my identity as a writer is not dependent upon it being my full-time job. And still, I am nostalgic for days when Didion, Fitzgerald, and hell, even Crichton were household names, pop culture figure and yes, authors as well, and believe that in another world, where we lauded art more loudly, I could have made a name for myself. Hey, there’s still time, but I’m up against some stark odds.

Year over year, decade over decade, we have seen the same emphasis on creativity move from the epicenter of our culture to somewhere on the outside, sitting at the periphery where our daydreams remind us of that printmaking class or classical guitar upbringing that still thrums in our soul. That shift ties directly to our culture’s emphasis on capitalism. Writing, art, music formerly existed a way of translating immense internal and indeed cultural change as well to the world at large—but money is what drives priority now, not understanding or immersion. And it’s not just money—it’s big money. Because to make it as an artist, you have to be the best, the best of the best of the best, the name on a marquee with streams galore. Subsequently, art has become something we relegate to museums and off days because the gap between unemployment and a solo show at the Met is so daunting that it is better to not even attempt that massive leap of faith. We have lost a middle class of artists who could make a living and have a legacy without needing to be Taylor Swift and Jeffrey Koons.

In December 2020, VC founder and writer Li Jin wrote about the creator economy’s lack of a middle class despite digital’s more egalitarian ecosystem for the Harvard Business Review. The article builds on the “long tail” theory which was coined in 2004 for a Wired article by Chis Anderson. In it, Anderson argues that the future of entertainment rested in niche, specialized art for hyper-attune audiences. Arguably, that came true. It’s just that the monetization of those spaces has not come to fruition; instead, we’re seen that the already-popular are ascending to even higher highs while the majority of the creators are left parsing over crumbs. To affirm that, Li compiled some stark figures, stating that, “On Spotify, for instance, the top 43,000 artists — roughly 1.4% of those on the platform — pull in 90% of royalties and make, on average, $22,395 per artist per quarter. The rest of its 3 million creators, or 98.6% of its artists, made just $36 per artist per quarter.” The same is true of TikTok, where the platforms biggest stars are being booked on late night television and making their way into rap lyrics while the vast majority of the platform’s users languish in obscurity. Charli D’Amelio is estimated to be worth $4 million at age 16. She’s been on the platform just shy of two years. Ouch.

As a writer, I think I’ve made my point well enough—so let’s skip ahead to what we can do about it now that we have laid out the problem. Li does a phenomenal job of addressing 10 points of resolution in their article and I would encourage you to spend time with those, as they are wonderfully articulated and actionable. But as a failed-writer-turned-digital-director, I want to think about the space I occupy and the community I serve—so here are three solutions I want to propose for anyone else who finds themselves wanting to shift our culture towards something more sustainable and far more creative.

1. Align yourself with actual and unsung people in your community.
   We at Black Sheep care about this element tremendously and have brought it into our Instagram programming as a result. Is it good engagement? Does it point to high reach and stellar metrics? Maybe not on its face, but it matters to us to find connection with individuals who are doing work worth lauding. And as we build that element of our content, who knows—maybe it will grow and become more engaging. But at the very least, it’s dismantling the idea that only superstars deserve the spotlight. When community activism, public art or Houston history gets celebrated, that is its own win.
   
   
2. Commit to proactive versus reactive support.
   Creatives need to be supported not when their art is most relevant, but in the off-seasons, too. So if you are inclined to use art for your advertising or marketing, find ways to give financially or align in partnership at a sustainable level. That means regularly planned for and doled out support. Writers, artists and musicians can make moves when they are able to know their bills are already paid and their worth is not tied to their relevancy in-the-moment, but in their long-term evolution.
   
   
3. Adopt an attitude of experimentation internally.
   “Make me a business case for it.” They are humbling words that I believe we all have heard, and often the “business case” in question truly means “prove this will make us money.” I’m asking that we drain that question of its power. Good art, at this point in time, may not make you money. That’s okay. It will still have value. But you have to believe that value is more important than the dollar lost. If you can act within that framework, you’re setting an example and also allowing yourself to shift your own belief system. The good art you make today will build that framework for tomorrow. It cannot exist and be financially stable unless we set to work building this foundation.

Admittedly, these are short recommendations, but they are a start—and we will be exploring this topic further, so be sure to stay connected as we continue to discuss ways that our love for creativity spans a more inclusive creator market.

But change starts where you are, and here you are, and here is a framework to shift. From one failed writer to the other lapsed creatives of the world, together, I believe, we’re capable of seeing a middle ground—and a middle class—come into prominence again.