The Art of Asking

by Amanda Palmer

  We have a fucked-up relationship with artists.

  While artists are, on one hand, applauded for their awe-inspiring, life-changing works of art, they’re simultaneously eyed with suspicion, disdain, and other sentiments of the GET A JOB variety. Look at the media: we deify artists one second, demonize them the next. Artists internalize this and perpetuate the cycle; artists do this to each other, and they do it to themselves.

  It’s no wonder artists have such a difficult time maintaining the romantic standard they try to achieve not just to please others but to hit their own internal bar that was set early on, when they were just starting to grasp their artistic identity. It’s no wonder that so many artists crack under the pressure, go crazy, do drugs, kill themselves, or change their names and move into hiding on remote islands.

  Artists can get mentally trapped in The Garret, that romantic vortex where painters, writers, and musicians find themselves stuck in a two-dimensional nightmare starring their own image. You know The Garret. It’s a candlelit attic room, where the artist sits with a pen, a paintbrush, slaving away. Alone. Drunk. Chain-smoking. Creating. Agonizing. Probably wearing a scarf.

  The artistic workspace is real and necessary, but it takes on every shape imaginable, and it wasn’t until I started twittering that I realized I’d created very strict, superstitious rules around my process: I need to be at home. I need total privacy. I create in silence. I need to look like an artist.

  Then one day I broke my own rules with “The Bed Song,” which took me about two hours to write, by leaving my computer open and my phone on. I’d always had a rule about that: no twittering while songwriting. Only bad artists do that. This time, though, I announced on Twitter that I was heading into a songwriting session and I updated the feed with in-progress photos and scrawled lyric drafts at the piano. People cheered me on. It wound up being one of the best songs I’d ever written. Who knew?

  A balanced artist knows when to hide in The Garret, when to throw the windows open, and when to venture out into the hallway to the kitchen, where society exists. Most important is the understanding that there are no rules—what works on one day, for one song, won’t work the next.

  Once the art is finished there is a new challenge. Down to the ground floor and out the front door, you have the marketplace. It’s loud down there. The stalls of exchange, the sound of bargaining and bartering and clanging cash registers. It’s crass and mundane compared to The Garret—no matter what your version of The Garret looks like—where the art gets dreamed up.

  Some artists need to create in complete peace, but all artists are now empowered by technology to open the front door and chronicle their backstage and behind-the-scenes working processes. More importantly, they’re equipped to distribute the work themselves, sharing their writing, their music, and their digitally reproducible wares infinitely and at their own will—without printing presses, without CD manufacturers, without movie theaters. The art goes from the artists’ lips or pen to the audiences’ ears and eyes. But in order to share directly, the artist still has to leave The Garret and head down into the bustling marketplace, and that’s the catch: the marketplace is where you have to deal with people. To many artists, people are scary.

  In The Age Of The Social Artist, the question echoes everywhere: what about the introverted or antisocial artists who have no desire to leave The Garret and enter the marketplace? What about the singers who don’t want to tweet, the novelists who don’t want to blog? What will happen to the reclusive J. D. Salingers of the world?

  The marketplace is messy; it’s loud and filled with disease and pickpockets and naysayers and critics. For almost any artist, carrying your work through the stalls of exchange can be painful.

  But there is another option, which is to yell from your window. You can call down to your potential friends outside, your comrades in art and metaphor and dot-connecting, and invite them to a private party in your garret.

  This is the essence of crowdfunding.

  It’s about finding your people, your listeners, your readers, and making art for and with them. Not for the masses, not for the critics, but for your ever-widening circle of friends. It doesn’t mean you’re protected from criticism. If you lean out that window and shout down to find your friends, you might get an apple chucked at your head. But if your art touches a single heart, strikes a single nerve, you’ll see people quietly heading your way and knocking on your door. Let them in. Tell them to bring their friends up. If possible, provide wine.

  If you’re not social—and a lot of artists aren’t—you’ll have a harder time. Risk is the core cost of human connection. In most cases, the successfully independent antisocial artist pairs with an advocate to shout the message down to the street. Sometimes it’s a record label. Sometimes it’s a patron. Sometimes it’s a best friend.

  Art and commerce have never, ever been easy bedfellows. The problems inherent in mashing together artistic expression and money don’t go away, they just change form. Nowadays a lot of apples get chucked at artists who try to get help through crowdfunding: Stop self-promoting. It’s shameless! Those words poke at the emotions most artists are already struggling with. That fear of being called shameless is what makes us think twice about sharing our work with ANYBODY in the first place.

  No art or artist exists in a vacuum. Although artists may have access to all the latest social media tools, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re all eager to use them. At least now there is a choice: you can either leave The Garret, or you can invite everybody in with you, or you can send somebody out on your behalf to round up your crowd and drag them up the stairs.

  A warning: With every connection you make online, there’s more potential for criticism. For every new bridge you build with your community, there’s a new set of trolls who squat underneath it.

  I was in the study, sharing an evening grok with Anthony, depressed and bitching to him about the Problem Of Neil. My Kickstarter was delayed and I was facing the looming cash shortage. He was offering to help, and I wouldn’t bend.

  What is it you’re so afraid of? Anthony asked. What do you think is going to happen?

  I don’t know. I guess I’m just afraid it’s going to bite me in the ass. At some point in our relationship he’s going to slam a door and scream, “BUT I LOANED YOU ALL THAT MONEY, YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH.”

  That sounds very unlike Neil, Anthony said.

  I know, I said. I’m not saying my fears aren’t totally deluded.

  He isn’t the problem, beauty. You are. You preach this whole gospel of asking and accepting help, you make your friends hitchhike with you, you sleep on all these couches, but you’re holding out on your own husband, who wants to help you. You somehow don’t want to give him the gift.

  I sat there, smoldering, then I tried to switch topics.

  I just never expected that I’d wind up with a shy, British writer sixteen years older than me. You know?

  Well, Anthony said, you did. You know, I remember asking you, a few years before you met him, what you were looking for in a partner. You said “I want an expert.” You got one. He’s an expert in making things up.

  But he can’t dance, Anthony. Like, not even a little. And when he tries, he kind of goes into a panic, I said.

  So what? said Anthony.

  So…I miss dancing. And ANOTHER THING, I said. He doesn’t go to bars. And he can’t drink more than a glass or two of wine without getting obnoxious or falling asleep. AND…

  But you drink and dance with everybody else, said Anthony. What are you trying to accomplish here?

  Why did I marry this guy? I asked.

  I don’t know, said Anthony. You tell me. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re just not that into him.

  That’s not true!!

  So why did you marry him?

  I thought hard. Anthony was not going to accept a bullshit answer.

  I think I married him because…I love him?

  Nice dodge, beauty. Why do you l
ove him?

  Because…he sees me?

  Does he?

  Yeah, I think he actually really does. I think he really, really does.

  As I said it, I realized it was true.

  And also…I think I see him. It’s dark in there, he hides so much. But I see him. And…I don’t know, I said with a shrug. I think that’s enough.

  Anthony looked at me. I felt like a disappointment. I didn’t expect my vague answer was going to cut it.

  Then he smiled.

  You’re turning out good, my girl. You’re getting it.

  Conditional love is:

  I will only love you if you love me.

  Unconditional love is:

  I will love you even if you do not love me.

  It’s really easy to love passing strangers unconditionally.

  They demand nothing of you.

  It is really hard to love people unconditionally when they can hurt you.

  It finally got to the point where I couldn’t put it off. I was down to the wire, about to launch the Kickstarter, but I needed to make sure everybody got their paychecks on time. I needed a loan to bridge the gap. I weighed my options. I sat paralyzed for a few days, battling the imaginary voices in my head.

  Yep. Just as we’ve always said. She’s a bullshit narcissist with a rich husband. She’s not a real artist at all.

  Next to them, I could hear the feminist bloggers:

  Are you kidding? She’s no fucking feminist. When it comes down to it, she’s an irresponsible wreck who goes running to hubby; she’s a hypocritical fraud who falls back on the patriarchy.

  I could hear an imaginary version of Neil, a year down the line:

  I should have known you were a user. Remember when I loaned you thousands of dollars to cover your ass? I never should have trusted you. I’ve had it.

  I could hear my family:

  You always were selfish, little miss attention-getter. You’ve never thought about anybody but yourself.

  I put my hands over my ears.

  SHUT UP.

  SHUT UP.

  SHUT UP.

  JUST STOP IT.

  And I called Neil.

  Hi, darling.

  Hi. I love you. Say tomato?

  Tomahto.

  Okay, I’m ready.

  Ready for what? he said.

  I’m going to need the loan to cover me for the next few months. I need you to help me.

  He sighed as if I’d just said “I love you” for the first time.

  Of course I’ll help.

  I’m not going to go back on the road. I’m going to crowdfund this fucking record instead. I can probably pay you back in three months.

  If it takes longer, it’s fine, he said.

  I really hope it doesn’t.

  Amanda, I love you. I’m proud of you.

  I love you, too.

  I paused. Then I added, That was really fucking hard.

  Listen, love. We’re married. We’re a team. And I’m glad you’re finally over it, he said.

  I’m not over it, I said. I fucking hate this. I hate that I have to ask you for this. I hate it, and I hate myself.

  Is there anything I can do? Neil asked.

  No.

  And I wasn’t over it, not really. I was terrified.

  But I’d done it. I’d achieved asking enlightenment. I’d accepted a massive donut. I was on my way to being a fully fledged…something.

  But it didn’t feel fine. It felt terrible. I felt like an asshole.

  And I wondered why.

  Doesn’t hurt enough yet.

  I’d set the Kickstarter goal at $100,000, which felt conservative to me. I’d sold $100,000 worth of vinyl albums with five Radiohead songs directly from my website—and now what I was looking to fund was a full-length record of my own songs. It had to work.

  The night we launched, Neil and I were staying in my apartment at the Cloud Club. I was nervous; I had no idea how many people were actually going to hop on board the Kickstarter bandwagon. It launched at midnight—my whole staff stayed awake and we twittered, facebooked, and blogged the link to high heaven. We asked everybody who backed it to share the link. I refreshed the page a few minutes after midnight, and it had about $200 in backing. I checked the site again after an hour: $600. Neil and I went to sleep. I woke up at about four a.m., in a mild panic, staring at the ceiling, certain that I’d asked for too much.

  Don’t check the computer.

  Don’t check the computer.

  I checked the computer. Four hours later, the Kickstarter had only made about another $500, pulling it over $1,000. I’d asked for a HUNDRED GRAND, for fuck’s sake. If you don’t make your minimum goal on Kickstarter, you don’t get anything.

  I shouldn’t have checked the computer. I went back to bed.

  It’s a failure, I thought. What if this Kickstarter only makes forty thousand dollars? How am I going to pay everybody? How am I going to face society? What the fuck am I going to do?

  By the end of the next day, it had cleared $100,000. The word had spread. I had hit my goal in under twenty-four hours. I wondered how I ever could have doubted the universe.

  As the number continued to skyrocket, I was more inseparable than usual from my phone, checking the Kickstarter status and thanking people via Twitter for backing the project, every day, every hour, every minute.

  Thank you.

  Thank you.

  Thank you.

  My Twitter feed, blog posts, and backer updates to the new Kickstarter community were a conveyor belt of gratitude. The more people backed the campaign and shared their pride in supporting it, the more people found out about the project, the more the numbers grew, the more I thanked. It ballooned.

  About three weeks after launching, the campaign had almost twenty thousand backers, and at the very moment it hit the million-dollar mark, I was—coincidentally—with Anthony.

  We were, at that point, three weeks into the monthlong campaign, and I’d been running between Boston and New York, doing press, holding production meetings with my office, getting ready to manufacture the record and all the other Kickstarter rewards.

  I knew the million-dollar mark was going to be symbolic. It’d be the first time a musician had raised a seven-figure amount using crowdfunding.

  Anthony and I had set up a grok date the week before. We were going to do our usual thing: meet for coffee and then drive to Walden for a grok and a walk around the pond.

  My visits with Anthony had grown more intense since his illness and scare at the hospital, and I started looking forward to them with equal parts joy and worry. I wasn’t just hanging out with my best friend; I was hanging out with a sick person. His latest blood tests and symptom complaints joined our usual topics: the universe, relationships, zits, how we couldn’t stand when people offer to massage our feet then don’t bother to pay attention while doing it.

  But the friendship was still a two-way street. Anthony would sometimes tell me, over the phone, that he didn’t want to talk about his latest list of ailments and the new side effects of the new medications prescribed to alleviate the side effects of the other new medication.

  He’d say, You talk. I’m done. Distract me, please. Tell me anything.

  And I’d prattle on happily about the new song I’d finished, or how I was hiring my PR team to help distribute the new Kickstarter record in Europe, or about the stupid argument I’d had with Neil…and Anthony would slip back to where he was most comfortable: advising.

  Some days, it felt like asking for his help was the best gift I could give him.

  I’d been celebrating online every time the Kickstarter hit a new hundred-thousand-dollar marker, or had attained another thousand backers, by scrawling the amount of money or the number of backers somewhere on my body with a Sharpie and posting the photo to Twitter.

  Earlier that morning I’d checked the Kickstarter page, which stood at about $990,000 and was ticking along at the rate of a few thousand dollars an hour.
It was likely that it would hit a million within the day. I walked up to Lee’s apartment, where Michael Pope was editing a film on his laptop in the corner and Lee was cooking an omelet. I announced my news giddily. I wanted to celebrate with more than just a Sharpie design on my hand. Pope, a master body painter, created a piece of calligraphy on my belly proclaiming “ONE FUCKING MILLION,” and Lee did the photo shoot up on the top floor of the Cloud Club. I saved the photo on my phone, ready to upload it to Twitter at the magic moment, and drove off to meet Anthony.

  He was already waiting patiently at a table at Peet’s Coffee & Tea, his cane resting against the wall. He’d started needing one due to his vision loss and balance problems.

  GUESS WHAT GUESS WHAT? I said breathlessly as I plopped down next to him and knocked his cane onto the café floor.

  Slow down for cry-eye, Rocket Girl. Jesus. He leaned over and picked up his cane, examining its glass knob for damage. One thing at a time, you. Now, you getting coffee? I already got something, he said, pointing to his pot of green tea and fishing his plastic Peet’s card out of his bag. He still loved paying for me.

  I checked the Kickstarter from my phone while I was standing in line for my coffee. It was a thousand dollars short of a million. I refreshed. Eight hundred dollars short. I checked my Twitter feed. People were getting excited. It was going to hit. I ordered an espresso, and a scone for Anthony. He waved his coffee card at me and started to get up to try to pay for us, and I shooed him away, paying in cash, refreshing my phone again, bursting with excitement. I headed back to the table.

  Listen, I said, I know I’ve been explaining this whole Kickstarter thing to you, and I know you don’t totally get it—

  I get it, he said.

  Well, I know you get it, but it’s about to hit a million dollars in backing, and it’s the first time anything like this has ever happened in the music business, so it’s kind of a big deal. Not just to me, but it means crowdfunding is working, it means you can put out a record like this and not have to have a label and stuff. It’s, like, news. You know what I mean.

  Anthony listened.

  When it happens…it’s going to be an exact MOMENT, you know, an important one, and it’s going to be happening ANY second now…and I don’t want to be an asshole sitting here on my phone, but there’s a picture I want to upload. I need to acknowledge it. You know?