Don't sell yourself short

What if we valued our work in terms of our contribution, not our sacrifice?

The other night I had a dream in which a woman, an older woman than I am, but probably not older by much—hair dye is such a convincing liar—told me that she was planning to bequeath her fortune to me. “You have worked so hard, Maggie,” she said solemnly. “And I want you to have this money so you can just make your art and live the rest of your life in a way that brings you joy.”

Her pledge shattered me. “You have NO IDEA how much this means to me!” I sobbed, cupping her cheeks in my hands. I was practically wailing, could feel the muscles in my face contracting, pulling my features into exaggerated expressions of disbelief. My guts surged and my limbs trembled, my entire body contorting with emphasis too big to fit into language.

I am often cartoonishly emotional in my dreams. When I am angry in a dream, I rage like Kali. I break faces with my fists. I smash shit up. I spit fire, I boom like thunder.

Kali is a BADASS. In addition to being the goddess of death and destruction, she is also the goddess of rebirth and transformation.

I wasn’t angry in this dream, but my emotion was every bit as feverish and physical, almost violent. Gratitude is too mild a word for it. What would you call the place where unexpected great fortune meets utter hopelessness? That was the feeling coursing through me.

I am not hopeless, but I’ve been pretty preoccupied recently with the practicalities of how to dial in a life of boundless freedom and beauty for this next phase, and I guess there’s more tension in those calculations than I realized.

I’ve been thinking about how the burden of participating in capitalism fucks with a life meant for making art. About which tradeoffs I am and am not prepared to make. About the sorrow I feel for the years lost to grinding away at wealth accumulation, and my alarm at having reached a point of total rejection of that grind without accumulating enough wealth to keep me in comfort for the rest of my days. (Because comfort is not optional.)

In other words, I can’t afford to retire, but have entirely lost my will to work.

But even that statement is contorted by capitalist ideology. What is “work”?

We tend to measure the seriousness, the validity, of our work according to what it robs us of: time with the people we love, rest, play, contemplation, joy. She who “works hard” is praised for all that she has given up.

What if we valued our work in terms of our contribution instead of our sacrifice?

The contribution of the artist is an important one. Writing can feel self-indulgent because it is so gratifying to give form to our feelings, to bring order to the chaos inside us through language.

But let’s consider for a moment what art provides those who receive it. In the intimate realm, a well-told story can be a warm hand that steadies us in a storm. It can help us to organize our own messy minds. A poem can lift us out of despair. A painting can be a friend. I felt that when I visited this old gal at London’s National Portrait Gallery a few weeks ago. I’d missed her. Glad to see her still hanging around, still freely giving her magic.

Self Portrait with Esme, Chantal Joffe, 2008. This painting is ten feet tall. How does she articulate the figures with such specificity, such vitality, with those big fat brush strokes? Fuuuuuuck.

In the public realm, art is even more sweepingly powerful. A manifesto can stir an oppressed people to uprising. It can topple a cruel regime. It can unite us in a shared vision for a better future. And boy, oh boy, does the world need that right now. Making art is not a frippery. It is essential work.

Also worth noting: Writing is no cakewalk. It takes time and discipline to do it at all, and courage and effort to do it well. And if I find the effort and discipline of writing enlivening, then I guess it’s not true to say I’ve lost my will to work. I just don’t have any time for work that would take me away from my writing, or from the contemplation that writing requires.

Maybe this is just another way of saying I am no longer willing to evade my life assignment.

Getting compensated for that work is another matter, of course, and this brings me back to my dream. What should I make of the woman gifting her fortune to me?

To puzzle this out, I went for a long walk down a gravel road. I saw donkeys and sheep. I saw silvery olive groves, purple wildflowers and yellow butterflies. I saw eight cats sunning themselves in a driveway. I walked past the backyard of the Aqualand waterslide park, up a hill and around the lake, and back home to this little cottage where I am living for three weeks thanks to the hospitality of friends. Riches, riches, everywhere.

The events of my dream are random on their face; it’s the narrative I weave around it that gives it meaning. I could tell myself that this was a dream of broke-ass wishful fantasy. That it speaks of lack, of envy. But where would that leave me? Nope, not doing that to myself.

Or I could spin a different yarn. I can interpret my dream woman as a spirit guide bestowing blessings on me. A fairy godmother giving me the key to a treasure chest that is already mine. Or maybe she is a not-too-distant future version of me, reminding me that this creative rainbow of a life comes with a pot of gold.

Here’s what the butterflies told me.

The definition of grace is unearned merit from God. Sometimes good things are freely given, and our job in those moments is to freely receive them.

Divine reciprocity is not a commercial transaction, it is cyclical and often indirect. We all have goods to contribute that don’t carry a price tag. Our time and attention have value. Our healing benefits everyone around us. Kindness. Presence. Creativity. Courage. Don’t sell yourself short just because capitalism discounts these treasures.

And this: Of course you can (and will) be paid actual money for your art. But first, you have to make it.

xo

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Where’s Maggie?

Now: Corfu, Greece

Next: UK, June 10—July 29

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