They say that during the British Industrial Revolution, as the mining industry boomed, miners would always carry a canary in a cage down into the underground shafts. This was because canaries are far more sensitive than humans to toxic gases like carbon monoxide; the moment the canary stopped singing was the danger signal to escape.
We artists, who enjoy the briefest sweet dreams during economic booms and take the hardest hits during recessions, are no different from those canaries in the coal mine.
Near the end of the last economic boom, my husband's paintings sold well enough for us to finally pay off our overdue credit card debt. But before the debt was fully cleared and we could save even a little money in our bank account, a recession hit us like a sudden storm, and we took a direct hit once again. The situation for most artists is probably pretty much the same. Still, since we are so used to living frugally, we had managed to settle our credit card debt beforehand—so perhaps I should consider that a blessing in disguise.
Now I think I understand why parents used to oppose their children going to art school so vehemently. Among my peers who chose to become artists, there is probably not a single one who didn't have a bitter fight with their parents. Some of my friends eventually gave in to their parents' wishes and became doctors or physicists. Keeping an financially unpredictable artist friend by their side, they often bring up their lingering regrets over the art they couldn't pursue, sharing those stories over drinks.
To maintain a stable life, these friends leave for work in the morning and come home in the evening, always busy like hamsters on a wheel. As for us, after years of trial and error, we now maintain a "9 to 5" routine at the studio, dedicating ourselves to our work. While we have the freedom to spend our time as we please, we have no fixed income. A lump sum of money might come in out of nowhere, or we might go a very long time without making a single dime. It is a life of constant anxiety, like walking through a thick fog, groping our way forward in the dark while praying that the faint light in the distance won't go out. We live with the constant fear that the toxic gas of the coal mine might seep in without a sound and devastate our lives.
The other day, a younger artist called me. So I asked. "How are you holding up in this recession?" "It's tough. But I'm still so glad I can live as an artist."
What else can we do? It’s a path we chose because we loved it, and a brush we cannot bring ourselves to put down because we love it so much. With a paintbrush in one hand and a credit card in the other, we have no choice but to wait for that glorious day when we will finally see the light. Even if they end their lives without ever tasting that glory, they say they won't regret it. It seems they still have the stubborn pride of youth and pure passion left in them. I suppose escaping from this addictive drug called painting was out of the question from the very beginning.
It was a day when the first snow was falling softly, like cotton candy. "Honey, since it's the first snow, why don't we eat out for a change?"
Standing in front of a Japanese restaurant and looking at the menu, memories of the days when I felt suffocated by the credit card debt I couldn't shake off suddenly overlapped in my mind. Looking out the window at the falling snow, the Japanese meal I shared with my husband after such a long time tasted sweet and sour in my mouth. The entire world was being quietly erased into white in the darkness. As a glass of warm sake slipped down my throat, my complicated mind suddenly cleared up, feeling as sharp and refreshing as a peppermint candy.
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