Introduction

In my first year in the theatre program at Toronto’s York University, our class decided to put on a comedy evening of student-composed sketches to help us get to know each other. We organized ourselves into groups. Each group would write and perform two sketches. One skit presented by my group was a scenario familiar to our audience of other theatre students, with a twist.
The sketch went something like this:

Mom and Dad, in their mid-forties, are sitting in their modest living room one evening after dinner. Their dress suggests they are middle class. Dad is on the couch watching television, while Mom is in her chair reading a book. After a few seconds, Chris, their eighteen-year-old son, enters, looking a little nervous.
Chris: Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Can we talk about something?
Mom (putting her book in her lap): Of course.
Dad (turns off TV): What’s on your mind, son?
Chris: Well, I know you’ve been waiting for me to make up my mind about what I want to take in university, and I’ve thought it through, so I think I’m ready to tell you.
Mom and Dad glance at each other, excitedly.
Dad: Exciting! We’ve been waiting for this all year.
Mom: Good for you, Chris. You know we’ll be happy for you, no matter what it is.
Chris looks a little pensive.
Chris: Well, before I tell you, I just want you to know that I’ve thought about it really hard, and I know I have a lot of good options in front of me, but I feel it’s important that I do something that’s going to make me happy.
Dad: Happiness is so important.
Mom: That’s what we want for you too! Okay, we can’t wait anymore! What is it?
Chris takes a deep breath.
Chris: I’ve decided to become an accountant.
There is silence in the room. Mom and Dad seem confused. Their faces change.
Dad: An accountant …?
Chris: Yeah.
Mom: You mean … you’re not taking theatre?
Chris: No. I’m sorry.
Mom and Dad look at each other.
Mom: I guess we’re just … a little surprised. I didn’t even know you liked accounting.
Chris: Well, I did take it in high school.
Mom: Sure, but you know … that was just a class. We didn’t know you were serious about it.
Chris: I took it all through high school.
Dad: I think your mother and I just thought it was a phase or something. I mean, is accounting a real job?
Chris: Yeah, it’s a real job.
Dad: Can it make you happy the way you think it will? I mean, we always talked about theatre as something exciting!
Chris: Well, to be honest, I think you and Mom did, but didn’t you ever notice I wouldn’t really say anything in those conversations?
Dad: So, are you saying that all of that was just something you did for us?
Mom is starting to get upset.
Chris: No, I’m saying that I always knew what I really liked, but you didn’t really want to notice. You know, the times we would have the neighbours over, and you’d be like, “Oh, Chris is going to make such a good actor when he grows up. We can’t wait to see him in a fringe show or busking on Yonge Street.” Didn’t you ever notice how uncomfortable that made me?
Mom: But why accounting of all things? Are you doing that just to get back at us?
Chris: No! Of course not. Ohhh, how do I make you understand?
Mom: I just don’t know where we went wrong!
She starts to sob.
Dad: Look what you’re doing to your mother, Chris. Is this how you thank us for supporting you all your life?
Chris: I don’t want to make you upset! Aargh, I knew this would happen.
Dad: I just think you haven’t really thought it through. I mean, have you considered how secure accounting is? What would you do with all that … money … coming at you … all the time!
Mom (to Dad): I bet he expects us not to support him his whole life too, right? To live on his own. The cars. The properties. The savings! Oh, what are we going to tell people? I just have visions of him walking into family gatherings wearing … DESIGNER CLOTHES!
Chris: Look, I know this will take a little time to get used
to, but I know you’ll come around. Over time you’ll see this was the right decision for me.
Mom: And what if it’s not?? Do you think you can just stop a program in university and start another?!
Chris: Uh … yeah.
Mom: I just don’t know what to say anymore.
Chris: I’m really sorry you’re reacting this way. Honestly, this is exactly what I was afraid of. You know I love you guys.
They calm down. Mom is sniffling.
Dad: We love you too, Chris. We just need a little time.
Chris: Mom?
Mom: You know I love you. I’m sorry, Chris.
Chris: Okay, well, I’ll be upstairs reading my copy of Corporate Theory and Financial Policy if you want to talk about it more.
Dad: Okay, Chris. Everything will be all right, I’m sure.
Chris exits. Dad reaches out to hold Mom’s hand. Mom sighs.
Mom (to Dad, sadly): I’ll bet he’s not even gay.

The audience was in stitches, and no wonder. As theatre students all of us had to endure the uncomfortable experience of telling our families that we were moving into a field that was fraught with challenges. Sure, any of us who made the “Big Time” (cash, media attention, and world travel) would be the toast of their loved ones and the envy of their siblings. But until then, most of our families would not consider the performing arts an actual career. It was a hobby, something you played around with, a way to make friends and find new skills that could be applied to any number of more secure career choices. For those of us who became serious about the arts in high school, oftentimes the underlying feeling from our families was worry. The closer we got to graduation, the more it was suggested that we might outgrow this fascination. It wasn’t for bad reasons, necessarily. Our families were trying to protect us, do their best to ensure we survived and thrived, which often meant one thing: money.

My own story mirrors this scenario. I am a first-generation Canadian, born in Toronto a year after my parents and two older sisters immigrated from Scotland. My sisters were already in their mid-teens by the time I came along. Like so many immigrant stories, my parents’ was about leaving everything behind in search of something more prosperous for themselves and their children. We grew up in a working-class household and Canada offered a cheaper cost of living, a good public school system, and most importantly for my father, a good job.

For my mother, the move to Canada was heartbreaking. In Scotland, they had a full life: a big family, many friends, dinners and parties, evenings at dance halls. Their people were their lifeblood and my mother struggled to find the same life in Canada. To leave all that behind was a huge sacrifice, one that she continued to lament up until her death.

As they got older, my parents’ biggest source of pride was the three of us kids and the lives we made for ourselves. Like many new immigrants, my parents believed that their sacrifices would benefit their children more than themselves. The most important thing was security. What was the point of such sacrifice if it meant a worse life for their kids? This meant that we had to get two things right: education and life choices.

My sisters found success in the health care sector and in business administration, respectively.

Both went to college to attain the necessary credentials. When it became my turn, the hope was that I would attend university, making me the first in the family to do so. Toronto was the perfect city for this aspiration, with two (at the time) big institutions within the city limits and several others within a one-hour drive. My grades weren’t perfect, but they were well within range for me to get into the program of my choice. Their guess, and my inkling, was that I might start out in psychology; York University had an excellent program.

But, almost as an afterthought, and at the suggestion of my high school drama teacher, I also selected theatre on my application to York. That drama teacher, Jim Finan, was a well-respected stage actor and director. He was also an excellent mentor who helped launch the careers of many successful talents. I had performed in plays and musicals all through my high school years, and I enjoyed how it helped me gain confidence. It never occurred to me that this passion might become more than a hobby until he suggested that it could be. So, I applied to the psychology program, but I also went to the theatre program audition, convinced that I had little chance of getting accepted.

I was home alone when York University admissions called. The admissions officer explained I had been accepted into both programs but because I had missed a deadline, I needed to accept one of those offers right there and then.

Hesitantly, I mumbled into the phone, “Uhh … I guess theatre.” And that was it. The path was set. When my parents got home, I told them of my choice with the kind of tone one uses when announcing they need to darn a sock. They had no discernable reaction that I recall, except a slight pause and resigned “Okay.” I could tell this was not the choice they were hoping for. They would openly challenge me on it months later.

There was no way for me to know at the time that my decision would take me from theatre to book publishing, to magazine publishing, to electronic art, to website design. This in turn would lead me to form a company that produced the artwork of other artists that won awards; and requests to have me participate on boards and committees of other arts organizations would follow. All of this would eventually lead to an opportunity to teach part-time at Seneca Polytechnic and to later chair the department in which I taught, the School of Creative Arts and Animation. Seneca would become globally recognized for breaking new ground in media, art, and design education, and my team and I would work with thousands of students and win awards along the way. After twelve years in this role, I would move on to become dean of the Faculty of Animation, Arts, and Design at Sheridan College, one of the most well-respected art schools in the world.

If there had been a way to communicate this to my parents, would they have reacted differently?

One of the common observations made by people with careers in the creative industries is that they never could have predicted where the journey would take them. This was certainly true for me. This is one of the mysteries and joys of working in culture — one can choose to embrace new opportunities even in career stages that occur later in life. But that unpredictability can make some people uncomfortable, especially in the foundational years of post-secondary education when so much of one’s future is deemed to be riding on getting decisions right. This is not a trivial matter. Many families, like mine, sacrifice much to send their kids to school, including leveraging family assets and accepting student loans knowing the debt could remain for years after graduation.

Seeking security for one’s child is a completely reasonable and loving motivation. But it is not necessarily what the child wants. For me, my security was my parents, and as a young person they instilled in me a belief that happiness was more important than money. That sense of security suddenly shifted when it became apparent that my parents had little confidence in my choice. It is a difficult crossroad for a young adult and their parents to find themselves at.

Today, the conversation can be different. In fact, it must be different. The environment in which the fields of media, art, and design operate is not the same as it was when I was in York University’s theatre program. We are in an economic moment for these creative industries (Yes, they are industries; sorry if using that word labels me a sellout!) and that makes careers in them more viable. Sectors like film and television production, animation, visual effects, video game development, graphic design, interactive media, along with others, are hungry for the next generation of artists, and there are concerns about the economic impact to these sectors if those demands are not met.

Add to this that technology has fundamentally shifted the territory for people working in the creative industries. For instance, new technology has allowed for the creation of tools for independent artists that enable them to market and sell their creations globally. Technologies like blockchain and non-fungible tokens (NFTs) offer visual artists the ability to continue to receive income for their work every time it gets sold to a new owner. (Oh, you thought they always did?) Artificial intelligence will fundamentally alter the way much work is performed in our economy. And the proliferation of mobile devices has put thousands of cheap and highly functioning creative production apps in the hands of young people who are spending their free time learning how to code, draw, design, photograph, 3-D model, video edit, audio mix, and create content at more sophisticated levels than their previous generation counterparts.

And good thing, too, because their heightened creative skills are giving way to important questions. How do education and training institutions bridge the digital divide so that students in school have access to the same tools regardless of their socioeconomic status? Can traditional art skills be preserved in school amid the new sea of technology? (Hint: they must.) What happens to the teacher-student relationship when students are coming into art class with more practised digital skills than the teacher? And how do colleges and universities up their game so that they can continue to challenge their incoming students who are more knowledgeable of content creation tools than previous generations?

With all this transition and opportunity sloshing around, one would think that a senior high school student today telling their family that they want to go into a creative sector career would be met with excitement and anticipation. And yet, more often than not, that student is still met with the same worry that my own family had for me. Why?

The answer? The Starving Artist Myth.

Think of the term “starving artist” and what comes to mind? Perhaps it is a penniless classical musician busking on the subway for whatever change you can offer. Could it be an aspiring actor who must perform at kids’ birthday parties to make ends meet? Or a writer who has to hold down a “regular job” while they toil away on their latest book? Or maybe it’s a brilliant painter living a simple lifestyle who would rather forego typical material comforts than sell out.

There is no doubt that we can find examples of scenarios today that match the situations described above. And there is nothing wrong with any of these strategies. They can even be inspiring. Read about Alice Li, a dancer and flautist who went on to be a successful certified public accountant and spends her spare time in the Toronto subway system playing flute to raise money for charity. Or Simu Liu, now a globally recognized actor for Kim’s Convenience and Marvel’s Shang-Chi, who started out dressing up as Spider-Man for kids’ parties. Or the award-winning Canadian poet Soraya Peerbaye, who steadily chipped away at crafting a work of poetry examining the murder of Victoria, B.C., teen Reena Virk with her book Tell. As for the painter, there are many examples of artists who choose a simple life in keeping with their personal values while practising their craft. If each lives the life they choose, who are we to judge them?

The concept of the starving artist can be summarized as this: those who decide to work in culture devote time, money, and education to learn a craft for which society has no real need, which leaves the individual little option but to work low-paying jobs to survive, thereby becoming a burden to government social programs. The outcome is an unhappy life full of struggle.

Who could possibly want this for their child?

The fundamental flaw in the starving artist image is that it is wildly out of date yet still accepted to be as true as it was 150 years ago. The tenacity of that image depends on society’s lack of knowledge of what it means to be a person practising in the field today and how the creative sector operates within modern economies and technologies. Career outcomes in these fields cannot be predicted from the current vantage point, unlike other professions (perform the same visual exercise when I say doctor, teacher, software developer, construction worker, office administrator), triggering deep-seated fears of the future.

Today, a career in the culture sector can be realized as fulfilling, full of opportunity, and financially rewarding. The economic calculus for many creative sectors has changed. But these economic changes alone do not determine whether a young practitioner, or one getting into the field from a previous career, will be successful. What matters today more than ever is education.

Across all sectors of the economy, the jobs of today are not the jobs of yesterday. While global digital content production has increased, manufacturing, by contrast, has been on a steady decline in North America since the mid-1970s. In Canada, manufacturing represented 17.41 percent of gross domestic product (GDP) in 1999; today, it is 10 percent. Like manufacturing, content production is also affected by new technologies, but sectors in which content production is a component have seen a growth of roughly 26 percent from 2016 to 2020. Though there are concerns about the future of this workforce with increasing use of artificial intelligence tools, the demand for people who know how to create content is still growing. The World Economic Forum, in its 2023 report on the future of jobs, noted that analytical thinking and creative thinking remain the most important skills for workers.

Whether one is an independent practitioner or employee in a studio, the nature of work has adapted to new technologies, society trends, and consumer tastes — not to mention the impact of a global pandemic. Learning the new rules of a global cultural market can make the difference between success and struggle. Honing the craft of one’s chosen artistic profession is still vital. Learning the new business and employment rules of a global market for cultural products can make the difference between success and struggle. Artists, musicians, writers, actors, and those who embrace the opportunities of this global market are understanding where their audiences are and how to reach them. At the same time, more traditional industries like the energy sector are turning to creative professionals to find new strategies for their organizational goals. Colleges and universities that embrace these opportunities enhance graduate success and institutional reputations for innovation.

It is worth exploring what led to the current prevalent attitude toward people who choose creative sector careers and why those factors are much less of an influence today. We will walk through the important changes in business, consumer trends, and technology that have fundamentally altered the way populations access stories and content of all kinds, and how those changes both democratized access and concentrated power. The current state of the field will be discussed. We will examine what to look for when seeking an education program, as well as successful career strategies. All this so that if you or someone you know is considering a career in the creative economy, a more informed decision can be made. Throughout the book, you will read stories of how some of the most successful and influential artists, performers, designers, and media makers have navigated their own paths through the pressures and the doubts along the winding road that brought them to where they are today.

What society needs today is to debunk, once and for all, the myth of the starving artist. This myth assumes that intelligent, plugged-in young people do not have the ability and sound judgment to see the world they belong to, or to respond to it in expressive and innovative ways different than previous generations. Our culture, technology, and economy are ready for them. More than that, we need them.