What’s it like to leave an art world career?

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fantasised, often, about getting the hell outta here. After one too many vapid air kisses or hallo daaarlings on art fair ‘VIP’ day; when the catalogue text is an artspeak riddle too far; when the whole spectacle begins to look like a pantomime with no gags. If I wanted to get out, I wonder how I’d actually do it, or whether I’d be of any use beyond. Does OnlyFans have a kink for washed-up arts editors?

But let’s not get dramatic, surely the art industry is just that: an industry? So like any other profession, career changes are perfectly normal, right? Sure, working in the arts can be fun, creatively rewarding and rich in variety, but boil it all down and isn’t it just labour in exchange for compensation?

There’s a sense that those who work in the arts are special, blessed by a divine right to provide, protect – and sell – the created world. It’s rife with delusion, but when it comes to labour exchange at least, maybe there’s something in it. What happens when working in the art profession offers too little in return for huge personal investments?

Look, I love my job, but I’m not going to tell you it bears any resemblance to a 9-5 and that I have any sense of normal work-life balance. Mostly, I’m at my desk, but the hours I’m not are encroached upon by unruly forces: creativity strikes when it strikes, emails from different time zones ping when they ping and most events take place outside conventional working hours. This will be familiar to many, and I’m not complaining. I knew what I was getting myself into and it’s my choice to stay put. And I will, for as long as I have the energy.

There are plenty of tales of artists withdrawing from the art world. Even Marcel Duchamp ‘left’ art for chess (though whether this was all just a ruse for his ‘anti-art’ practice is another matter). This story isn’t about artists – their ‘departures’ are complicated and often involve a hiatus rather than a severance – it’s about those who once worked in the art industry and now do not. What happens when you’re done playing to the gallery, like really done?

Art world renegades are not easy to come by. With a few exceptions, they don’t tend to make a song and dance about moving on. Those I’ve spoken to for this article, ex-art employees, have each left for different reasons. What binds them is a deep sense of attachment to their former roles. There are stories of fleeing toxic work environments, realising passions lie elsewhere, or just changing proximity to the industry. Others left in the knowledge that some things have an expiry date, and that’s ok. For those who have broken free, I’ve found the break is rarely clean.

Last year, Louise Benson wrote a piece for ArtReview on how quitting art could be viewed as a luxury. She explored a system increasingly being furnished for a certain type of inhabitant: one with a financial safety blanket for dry spells. “In the creative industries, where the motivations for working as an artist, writer, filmmaker or other creative practitioner extend beyond money alone, quitting takes on a very different meaning,” she wrote. “The notion of quitting is at once tantalising and terrifying, a spectre looming over an industry that continues to drive its artists out.”

Unless we’re flipping Basquiats, most of us are in this game for love, not money. Different currencies are being exchanged: knowledge, creative and emotional fulfilment, sometimes clout (or the illusion of it). Ego massages are gifted liberally: people shower each other with praise, dish out free shit, organise lavish all-expenses-paid trips abroad and pay for dinner. But these alternative currencies won’t pay your rent, and even the novelty of a free drink wears off eventually, particularly with the realisation that it’s not really free – someone will eventually return for their pound of flesh.

The problem with having ambition, aspiration and passion for something, is that the object of your desire can disappoint you. “Out of university, I was very idealistic about the power of art and its reach”, says Sarah*, a former PR who worked for one of London’s largest art agencies. “But despite being a creative industry, the innovation seemed to stop on the gallery walls.” She has since left the art world and moved into tech, citing “a combination of fatigue, disillusionment and financial insecurity” on both sides of the coin. “At times, it felt like having two feet stuck in two separate sinking ships. I was surrounded by brilliant, talented and wildly creative people every day who were consistently burning themselves out. I knew it was time to get out.”

I came across a 2019 article titled Dan Fox On Leaving the Art World – Or Not. It was written by Frieze’s then-outgoing editor-at-large, who had been in the role for 20 years, joining the magazine after graduating from art school, with the intention of continuing to make artwork alongside his full-time job. “I enjoyed magazine work, partly because it gave me a bird’s-eye view on so much that was adjacent to the art world as well as inside it – design, music, film, fashion, architecture,” he told me. This was the late 1990s, the pre-boom, pre-digital art world was considerably smaller and less connected. “I was lucky: I got to travel and meet many fascinating people. I got to write, I got to produce something tangible. My colleagues in the magazine were great.”

I was struck by a line in Fox’s exit piece: “The trick is in establishing a healthy proximity to art’s professional machinery without becoming lost in its showbiz.” This is true, but easier said than done, particularly in a world where working hours often spill into what, in conventional work-life terms, we might deem play. Many consider working in the arts to be more of a ‘calling’ than a job – uh huh. But there is something murky about a job that, from the outside, resembles leisure: making art, looking at art, going to dinners, drinking champagne, partying, nattering, travelling the world. In the muddy waters of an art career, it can be difficult to distinguish hobby from hustle. There are more righteous motivations, too: that what we do could actually improve lives.

You’re so lucky to be here, the industry subtext reads. It all looks great from the outside, almost decadent, but it’s also fertile ground for burnout. And in all seriousness, is going for a dinner with art world pals tax deductible? I tracked down Fox, now a freelance writer, editor, filmmaker and musician to find out more about his shift. “I knew many people who lived and breathed the art world,” he told me. “They went to art events every night of the week. They went to every dinner, every talk. Their weekends were spent doing the rounds of galleries. Their friendships were with art people. For some, even their holidays were spent with other art professionals. I found it stifling and narrow. I felt that there was an unhealthy ambient culture of obligation to know everything about the industry, to go to every show, all glossed over with a mealy-mouthed, euphemistic language about that being part of ‘the community’ and ‘the discourse,’ showing ‘commitment.’”

Fox’s description of the art world addict reminded me of one friend in particular, a London gallery director who lives, breathes, eats and shits the art world. I wanted to know if he’d ever entertained the idea of leaving. “I’ve thought about it many times,” he sighed, one eye glancing at his phone screen stacking with Gmail notifications. “In my intern days battling the Hamleys hordes at Christmas to source sold-out Barbie Dreamhouses for a client’s children; in my more senior days chasing unpaid invoices and fighting galleries poaching our artists. But while the art world is an unpredictable and wild ride of highs and lows, the diverse, collegiate community I’ve built is worth it. It’s a privilege to work with friends and – through travel – have them in many cities. At this stage, to imagine my life without the art world would be pretty bleak. To paraphrase Ian Beale in Eastenders, ‘I’d have nothing left’.”

I don’t wish this for my friend, but an all-consuming intoxication with the industry can, in some cases, lead to a live-fast-die-young career prognosis. And as Fox, like Sarah, found irreparable disenfranchisement. “When I was first learning about the art industry, I found it interesting. It was all new to me,” Fox continues. “I suppose for a while I was even enamoured of it. Then, years later, it began to make me feel quite depressed. I had no interest in power in the art world. It seemed so small to me. I found the culture of hagiography that had radiated from artists to encompass curators and dealers to be ridiculous. The rhetoric about art’s capacity to change this or that seemed hyperbolic and, ironically, inadequate for describing the varieties of meaning and value that art held in the lives of people who had nothing to do with the industry. This made me feel increasingly like I was a hypocrite for taking part in it all. I had to do something about it for my own sake.”

As the years wore on, Fox sensed that he’d seen enough. “I needed a change for the sake of my writing, and to gain a sense of perspective. When you’re deeply ensconced in the bubble of any profession, it becomes extremely easy to believe that the world revolves around it and this results in a dangerously distorted sense of proportion.”

By the time he left, Fox’s interest in the industry had evaporated; finding an adjacent role – in another magazine, a gallery, museum or as a fabricator – was out of the question. “The most important reason for stepping back from the art industry – despite the financial anxiety I had about giving up a modest but regular salary – was the desire to lead a varied life. Art could remain a part of my life – it didn’t have to involve some great renunciation – but I wanted it to be one thing among many.”

As he describes, ‘leaving the art world’ is too neat a phrase for what he did next. “Art still interests me as a broad subject, I’ve got friends who are artists, and in that sense, it’s still a part of my life. I didn’t leave Frieze to retrain as a scuba diver and never look at a painting again,” he says. Fox occasionally edits and writes features for art magazines or exhibition texts, but only if the subject is right and the pay is fair. “I don’t want to sound mercenary but, like everyone else, I need to earn money… But this work is often poorly compensated and there isn’t much of it.”

Ed Spurr spent 15 years in art, including as a director at Matthew Marks in New York and Marlborough Gallery in London. He has fond memories: “It was an incredible experience. I felt deeply privileged to collaborate with exceptionally talented artists and assist in the production of their work.” But in 2018, he swapped art for acorns, co-founding Ilex Studio, a business that designs and manufactures vases for oak and avocado plant saplings. “The idea came to me at Matthew Marks Gallery when Ellsworth Kelly – one of my favourite artists – was exhibiting his stunning plant drawings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” he says. “For a celebratory dinner, I decorated the table with leaves from the various plant species featured in the exhibition. The simplicity and elegance of that arrangement inspired me to create the Acorn Vase.” Spurr began making acorn vases as gifts for the artists he worked with, but he soon realised people were more intrigued by the vases than the art he was selling. Spurr was encouraged to commercialise the concept. “Leaving the art world was not an easy decision,” he admits, “but the success of this new venture and the passion it ignited in me made the leap worthwhile.” His acorn vase business is booming – one can even be found on the desk of King Charles III – and is particularly sought-after by museum shops; the MoMA Design Store is one of his biggest clients: “A significant milestone for me, given that MoMA was always the pinnacle for placing our artists’ work during my gallery days,” he reflects.

Spurr misses building relationships with artists, but there are aspects of his previous career he’s glad to leave behind. “As I climbed the ranks in the gallery world, my role increasingly focused on sales, which became a less fulfilling aspect of the job,” he says. “In my last gallery position, the relentless pressure of organising, opening, and selling exhibitions every month became overwhelming.”

These days, the art world is kept within a comfortable proximity. “I still enjoy visiting galleries and maintain many friendships within the art community”. He also occasionally produces editions and curates shows. “My company’s success has also allowed me to become a collector, particularly of art that focuses on nature.”

Like Spurr, Henry Kinman rose up quickly in the art world. After graduating from Chelsea College of Art, he worked for photographer and collector, Mario Testino. “I found myself in the middle of the art industry and it was kind of sink or swim. The mechanism of the gallery fascinated me and I was in awe of some of the dealers.” Kinman got a taste for the art rollercoaster, and in 2013, secured his own lease on a “2,500 sq ft concrete bunker-like space” on Curtain Road, Shoreditch. Kinman Gallery was born and specialised in shows by emerging artists. “London had a fantastic variety of mid-weight and blue chip galleries but it felt like it lacked a consistent focus on emerging art – I had my finger on the pulse and it felt exciting,” he says. As his operation expanded, the juggling act began. “My reality was fast-paced, fairly chaotic and high-pressure. At one stage I was programming a space in London, a space in New York and participating in five international art fairs annually whilst securing another space in Farringdon.”

Kinman had no financial backing, so extensive travel was required to maintain sales and client relationships. But in all the excitement, something began to shift. “In retrospect, I probably partied a bit too much,” he admits. “I think I burned the candle at both ends. It felt like I’d lost passion for the thing that had been so important and motivating for me throughout my life. I also had a lot going on personally at the time and just needed to clear my head and recalibrate.” Kinman returned to where he started: rock climbing. “I’ve been a climber since I was a kid and used to compete. As the pressures of running a gallery began to heat up, climbing came back into my life and almost became a therapeutic act of escapism. It was the total paradox of everything that the art market represented – it was a rejection of materialism and I found comfort in its primitivity.”

Kinman combined his creative and entrepreneurial skills to fill a gap in the market. His Derbyshire-based business, Lock Holds, makes renewable hardwood alternatives to standard plastic holds, the blob-shaped grips attached to climbing walls. “Some people say that climbing is an art form rather than a sport, similar to the way dance is perceived. I like the way that the forms teeter quite closely to being sculptures, interacting with the user via performativity and function. Coming back around to designing and making in a studio context is very rewarding for me.”

But there are parts of his previous life he looks back on fondly: “the varied nature of the characters I’d interact with on a daily basis – from artists to collectors to the other gallerists I’d collaborate with. I miss the rambling late-night cultural debates. I got pretty good at dealing and bizarrely I miss that. In some respects, my life as a dealer became quite turbulent, but in others, it was so liberating and rewarding. Ultimately I met some of the most incredible, gifted individuals I could ever have hoped to meet and I lived some truly unforgettable experiences.” Like Fox, the process was not clear-cut or conclusive. Kinman still has a toe in and some of his former colleagues, clients and collaborators remain friends.

Leaving the art world behind can be scary. Not least because we’re conditioned to think that our jobs are niche, specialist and non-transferable; that we’ve trained ourselves into a corner. Yes, some of the knowledge fields are specialist, but the skillsets are perfectly transferable, they’re just under the guise of industry slang. Sarah recalls the challenges of reframing her skill set for a new industry. “Working in art made my CV inaccessible to recruiters when in reality, a lot of my skills are very transferable. It took a team of very open-minded individuals to give me a chance as a career changer.”

Jess* worked as photo editor for a UK-based magazine. She describes an environment that was “so intense, and all encompassing, I just kept my head down and prioritised work over everything else.” After a while, she came to the realisation that, despite achieving her ambitions and being in full-time employment, was struggling financially. “When the industry ground to a halt through Covid, I found myself in better financial shape than when I was working. It was the eye-opening, galling, harsh realisation that I was essentially paying to be part of a club that didn’t want or need me.”

In 2023, she took the plunge and enrolled at her local technical college to retrain as an electrician. “Originally I thought about being an electrician on film sets, since I know there’s a general drive towards more diversity on the technical side. Now I’m learning about other avenues within the industry, like renewables and solar.” Like the others, Jess has not severed ties completely. “I think it’s an interesting and instructive experience to do something you’re very new at, alongside something you’ve been doing for 20+ years. It’s bittersweet, in the sense that it reminds you how ‘good’ you are at the thing you’re giving up. In a way it’s actually not a massive change, in that I’ve had other work alongside film and photo work for a decade, and I think a lot of people supplement creative work with other jobs out of necessity.”

“One of the reasons I want to stay anonymous, apart from the fact I will still do the odd job [as a fashion and art photographer], is that I feel a lingering sense of shame and failure, which is daft I know. But this emotional aspect was holding me back from the very real need to have an income that was a bit more reliable, and stop getting into horrendous debt.” Pride, and the stigma of perceived failure is why a lot of people tolerate jobs – or anything – that offers too little in return. The art world is reinforced by shallow perceptions, being seen to be someone who is culturally relevant, important. Class is not necessarily determined by inheritance in the art world, but it’s still the governing force.

“I don’t miss having to be cool or relevant,” Jess explains. “Although obviously I’m in my 40s now anyway, so I give less of a fuck about that in general, but it feels like a very precarious index of your employability. It’s definitely true that the longer you feel out of it, the less easy it is to slink back into it. But you can also enjoy it much more without skin in the game – I went to an opening and just enjoyed talking to friends and new people while having a free beer, without that horrible churning anxiety of who you should/shouldn’t be talking to! I’m not going to stop being friends with artists, and being a periphery character in the world, but I’ve made peace with not being a star in it.”

Jobs in the arts often take more from us than labour. They can be greedy and they know how to exploit our passions. Often, our sense of self is so fused to our work that the prospect of losing it is akin to an identity crisis. The greatest occupational hazard of working in the arts is becoming the occupation. Losing a place in it can feel like being skinned.

Once you’re out, like any breakup, there are ebbs and flows: moments of clarity, moments of fog. You know you’re probably better off without them, then you want them back. You observe them from afar to see how they’re doing without you, shocked that they’re capable of doing anything without you. It’s a brutal, yet reassuring truth that we are dispensable and life moves on. As Fox describes, “…you become invisible once you leave the circus and cease being a useful person for [those in the industry] to know.”

The arts can be a magnificent place to work. It can also be grotesque: ridden with exploited passions, backstabbing, elitism, inequality and industrial-scale bullshit. I’m not ready to leave it all behind just yet – I’m too addicted to the thrill, the unpredictable circus of it all – but it’s comforting to know I can.

 

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