“Art Does Not Pay – Really?”

It’s a line repeated so often in studios and green rooms that it feels like a universal truth. But the sharper truth is this: art doesn’t pay because we have allowed it not to. Systems don’t remain broken on their own; they survive because we feed them with our choices, our yeses, our silences. Artists keep pointing outward, blaming organisers, gurus, institutions, society—yet the mirror reveals a far more uncomfortable reality: we are part of the problem.

Art can pay, dance can pay, and creativity can become a stable career, but only when we treat it like one. Thousands of young dancers are trained brilliantly in technique, but not in the skills that actually build financial independence—pricing, negotiation, contracts, branding, consistency, boundaries, money management. We romanticise passion so heavily that we forget passion alone doesn’t pay bills; professionalism does. Every time an artist accepts work without thinking about value, every time someone takes up a gig for “experience,” every time a trained dancer treats their career like a hobby, the industry learns to treat them like a hobbyist. We keep complaining about a broken ecosystem even as we actively participate in maintaining it.

Is dance world a community?

We love calling the dance world a “community,” but what is a community without shared values? Low pay isn’t the fault of one organiser or one institution—it’s the cumulative result of years of undercutting. Artists undercutting other artists. Students undercutting professionals. Dancers saying yes to offers that insult their effort. I once declined an international gig because the honorarium was embarrassingly low. A week later, I discovered that several big names had accepted the same offer and even paid for their own travel. That moment made it painfully clear: even those who should know their worth often don’t. And when leading artists accept crumbs, what chance does a newcomer have? Why is saying no so difficult? Why is self-respect labelled arrogance? Why is survival equated to ego? When you accept peanuts, you’re not growing the ecosystem—you’re killing its value one cheap performance at a time.

There are many contributors to this culture. Teachers who do not pay their own students or normalize unpaid labour create generations who think exploitation is part of the process. Organisers who offer grand stages but tiny fees hide behind excuses like, “Others didn’t ask so much—how can you?” Parents, with good intentions but poor foresight, protect their children from financial realities, never teaching them how to earn, even while paying hefty training fees. But the largest share of blame is still ours. You who say yes when you should say no. You who call exploitation “opportunity.” You who choose silence because resistance is uncomfortable. The truth is brutal: the system continues because you participate.

Money is backbone of art

Money is not the enemy of art; it is its backbone. Doctors charge. Designers charge. Carpenters charge. Yet artists are somehow expected to live on applause and “exposure.” We have glorified poverty as though it validates artistic purity. Suffering is not authenticity, and payment is not greed. And here’s a reality many don’t admit: choosing art as a career already assumes privilege. Training, time, mentorship, safety nets—these are privileges, even if we don’t realise it. Privilege itself isn’t the issue; the issue begins when privileged artists romanticise unpaid work and call it “commitment.” When someone who can afford to work for free does so, they push those who can’t afford it into deeper struggle. Not everyone has a safety net. Not everyone has years to give to unpaid gigs. If art is for everyone, then the way we value artists must include everyone—not just those who can survive on nothing.

This is why financial education must begin at home. When dancers hear, “Why do you need money when we support you?” or “If you think about money, you’ll lose focus on art,” they learn dependence, not discipline. They grow into adults who don’t know how to earn, how to negotiate, or how to build stability. Learning to make money is not greed; it’s survival. In a world shaken by instability, conflict, and uncertainty, knowing how to earn is as essential as knowing how to create. Art and money must coexist—passion needs a structure if it is to survive.

Is art sustaining your life?

Now ask yourself: is your practice financially sustaining your life or just feeding your dreams? Budget your rent, food, travel, costumes, training. Compare it with what your work pays. If the math doesn’t add up, it’s not because art can’t pay—it’s because you were never taught how to turn your art into income. This is what should be taught in advanced arts degrees: financial planning, negotiation, building a portfolio, understanding markets. Instead, we keep hearing the same poetic speeches about “living for art,” offered by people whose bills are comfortably handled by someone else. Art is not your entire life. Life is broader, heavier, and more expensive than passion alone.

Consider how many hours you spend rehearsing, networking, performing—for what return? Exposure? Applause? A stipend that barely covers travel. Who benefits from your labour—the teacher, the organiser, or you? The “starving artist” identity is not romantic; it’s a trap. Struggle is not noble. Artists must stop treating exploitation as a rite of passage. Stop saying “art doesn’t pay” and start saying “I wasn’t taught how to earn.”

Clarity is the key

Demand clarity. Ask uncomfortable questions. Why am I paid only ₹3,000 for six hours of work per week? Why does my teacher get paid but not me, though I’m a professional? Why should I be grateful for exposure when organisers profit? Why do some dancers get paid opportunities because of privilege while others starve despite equal talent? The answer is simple: because we accept it. Learning to say no is not disrespect; it is dignity. It is respect toward the art form, which is bigger than any guru, organiser, or institution. If enough artists say no, the system will be forced to change.

Ultimately, change begins with you. Stop blaming the system and start refusing to participate in it. Value your time, effort, training, and experience. Build something sustainable for yourself and for the next generation. The reason many young people do not choose classical or traditional art forms is not because the art is outdated—it’s because we have allowed its ecosystem to become financially unsustainable. When artists begin valuing themselves, others will follow. Your boundaries, your courage, and your refusal to settle today are what will create a fairer, stronger, more dignified arts landscape tomorrow.

Sandip Soparrkar holds a doctorate in world mythology folklore from Pacific University USA, an honorary doctorate in performing arts from the National American University, He is a World Book Record holder, a well-known Ballroom dancer and a Bollywood choreographer who has been honored with three National Excellence awards, one National Achievement Award and Dada Saheb Phalke award by the Government of India. He can be contacted on sandipsoparrkar06@gmail.com