i just wanted to paint flowers – now i know what a BAS is

When I started to teach myself to paint in 2019, I had a fairly simple idea of what being an artist might look like. I would paint things. People might like those things. Maybe, if I was lucky, some of those people would even pay me for them. Cute.

What I did not realise was that somewhere between buying my first set of paints and deciding that I wanted to make a proper go of this whole art thing, I had also accidentally signed myself up to become a bookkeeper, photographer, marketer, grant writer, social media manager, administrator, contract negotiator and professional sender of emails beginning with, “Just following up on the below…” Nobody warns you about that bit.Six years later, I run my own visual art practice, POTTY MOUTH, as well as The Rundle Collective – an 800-square-metre creative hub in Adelaide/Tarntanya that is home to more than 65 creative small businesses. Which means I’ve not only made an impressive number of small-business mistakes myself, but I also now have a front-row seat to other people figuring it out too. I’ve become increasingly convinced that we spend an awful lot of time teaching creatives how to get better at their craft, and nowhere near enough time teaching them how to build a life that lets them keep doing it.

So, here are my confessions from the less glamorous side of making art for a living.

WE’RE ALL GOOGLING IT When you’re starting out, you assume everyone further along has cracked some secret code. Surely real artists know exactly how much to charge. Surely established small-business owners have immaculate spreadsheets. Then you become one of those people and realise we’re all just googling things with varying degrees of confidence.

You learn. You ask someone. You google it. You make a mistake. You fix it. Then six months later, somebody asks you how to do it and you suddenly realise you know things that you didn’t before. That is professional development.MAKING ART IS ONLY PART OF THE JOB There are weeks when I spend more time talking about art than actually making it. Emails, quotes, invoices, applications, photographing work, updating the website, packaging orders, writing captions, following up enquiries, working out why Australia Post has done that. And then there’s social media.

Apparently, it isn't enough to make the painting. You must also film yourself making it, edit the footage, find audio that doesn't make you want to throw your phone across the room, write a caption and enthusiastically tell everyone that the painting exists. By the time that's done, you almost forget that you actually like painting. Almost.

But the boring bits allow the good bits to happen. Sending the invoice means I can buy more paint. Updating my website helps somebody find me. The admin isn't separate from my creative practice anymore – it's part of keeping it alive.TALENT DOESN’T PAY THE BILLS Being good at making something and being good at selling it are completely different skills. You can be an extraordinary painter and terrible at talking about your work. You can make beautiful ceramics and have no idea how to price them. Neither make you less talented. But, unfortunately, talent alone does not pay your bills.

If you want your creative practice to become sustainable, eventually you have to learn to talk about what you do, put a price on it and ask people to pay you. Charging appropriately isn't being greedy. You're paying for the materials, but also the years spent learning, the failed versions, the equipment, the studio, the insurance and all of those invisible hours before somebody sees the finished thing.GET IT IN WRITING Creative people are lovely. Creative people are generous. Creative people are also extremely capable of agreeing to an entire project via DMs and then wondering how everything went horribly wrong.

I say this with love because I have absolutely been that person. What are you making? How much is it? When is payment due? How many revisions are included? What happens if the project is cancelled? Get. It. In. Writing. It feels awkward until the first time something goes wrong. Then suddenly contracts become very sexy.OTHER ARTISTS ARE NOT YOUR COMPETITION Running a creative space has taught me this more than anything else. The more creatives I meet, the less I believe we need to guard information from each other. Tell someone about the grant. Send them the supplier. Recommend them for the job you can't take. Tell them what you charged. Explain the thing you spent three hours figuring out so they don't have to.

Some of the biggest leaps in my own career happened because another creative told me something, encouraged me to apply or simply said, “You should charge more for that.” Community has been infinitely more useful to me than competition.NOBODY MAKES YOU A ‘REAL’ ARTIST I really thought there might be a point where someone officially told me. Maybe there would be a letter. A certificate? A tiny ceremony where someone hands me a beret and says, “Congratulations, Cassandra. You may now refer to yourself as an artist.” Still waiting.

There is always another milestone you can invent before allowing yourself to take your practice seriously. “I'll be a real artist when I sell something, when I have an exhibition, when I get a commission, when somebody important knows my name.” The goalposts are good at moving. At some point, you have to stop waiting for permission.

You make art? You're an artist. You sell the things you make? Congratulations – you also have a small business. Sorry about the paperwork.I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS MY JOB There are days when running a creative business is wonderful. There are also days when I have 47 emails, three invoices to chase, two applications due at midnight and absolutely no idea where I put the receipt that I specifically told myself not to lose.

I've learnt more about tax, contracts, insurance, marketing and spreadsheets than 2019-me ever wanted to know. But I've also spent the past six years learning, playing, painting and slowly building a life around making things. A sustainable creative career isn't just about becoming better at making things; it's also about building enough structure around your creativity that it has room to survive.

Learn the boring stuff. Ask stupid questions. Get the contract. Send the invoice. Charge properly. Tell other creatives what you've learnt. Would I trade all of that for a normal job? Ask me during BAS time. But probably not.

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