From 19th century bohemian myth to Soviet bureaucratic control, the question of how artists make ends meet has never been straightforward in Russia – and, as a recent collaborative lab project reveals, it remains stubbornly unresolved today.

The stereotype of artists as either enjoying a luxurious lifestyle without doing any ‘real work’ or struggling on the brink of starvation date back to the 19th century. In Russia, for many decades these tropes were paradoxically reinforced by the Soviet system of government control over artists through a system of ‘creative unions’ which divided artists into two categories. Those who were members of the Union of Artists had access to lucrative government commissions and highly coveted freelance or staff jobs as book and magazine illustrators and were therefore well off financially with plenty of time for their own creative pursuits. Many of them are known as non-conformists today. Sculptor Boris Orlov (b. 1941), for example, once told me in an interview that he only worked for the government for half the year, dedicating the rest of his time to his own projects. Ilya Kabakov (1933–2023) disliked illustrating children’s books, but the fees he received enabled him to buy an apartment for his mother, a dream that was beyond the reach of most Soviet citizens. Meanwhile, their peers who were not accepted into the union, or who refused to join it on principle, had to work as night watchmen, boiler room stokers, or – if they were lucky – art handlers in a museum. Many were quite happy with these low-paid jobs because they demanded no intellectual effort and left plenty of time for art, without having to compromise one’s principles by creating propaganda commissioned by the authorities. In his memoir ‘My Life: Before the Exile’, Mikhail Chemiakin (b. 1943) recalls that the art handling department of the State Hermitage was staffed entirely by artists, including himself. He even managed to organise a group exhibition for them at the Hermitage, but it was closed down the day after its opening. Oscar Rabin (1928-2018) worked as a railway porter and as a foreman on construction sites from 1950 to 1957.

Artist unions provided free studios to their members, mostly in the basements or attics of apartment buildings. Among them were the now-famous studios of Ilya Kabakov and Erik Bulatov (1933-2025), which were located on Sretensky Boulevard in the centre of Moscow. The system still exists in Russia today, albeit with some drawbacks: since all studios legally belong to the city and the artist unions merely manage them, local authorities often reclaim these spaces to sell or use for other purposes, evicting the artists without prior notice or compensation. This problem is especially acute in Moscow.

In the USSR, some artists in Moscow, where many embassies were located and foreigners arrived from time to time, even during the Iron Curtain era, could earn a steady income by selling works to private collectors, mostly foreign diplomats, journalists and Slavists. (This was the case with Oscar Rabin in the 1960s. He started organising private viewings of his artworks every Sunday in his flat in Lianozovo – it was located in a former labour camp barrack. However, this was a rare exception.

Due to the infamous Soviet anti-parasitism law, which obliged every Soviet citizen to work and made unemployment a criminal offence, even artists whose work sold well had to find a fictitious job. The status of being a member of an Artist Union protected artists from being persecuted as “parasites.”

In today's Russia, artists seem to be stuck in a kind of limbo. The old Soviet system of support has almost disappeared, although you may still be able to find a studio through an artists' union for a monthly fee much lower than the average market rent. Some Moscow artists choose to live in their studios and rent out their flats, thus generating a steady passive income. Meanwhile, the new system of private grants and stipends has yet to develop; there are only a few such initiatives across the whole country. The art market is also still in its infancy. There are only a few galleries, and the largest contemporary art fair, Cosmoscow, had only around 100 participants last year, including those dealing in collectible design items. Many artists, even established ones, have no gallery representation. Only the top tier can support themselves through their art alone. For the rest, sales are few and far between. Consequently, most artists without passive income, wealthy parents or spouses have to get a day job to support themselves and their families.

“Sometimes I take on part-time jobs. Other times, I’ll get a full-time office job for a year, than burn out, quit it and focus on my art projects,” artist Anna Tararova (b. 1990) told Art Focus Now. Tararova, whose ‘real-world’ profession is fashion design, got so frustrated with these dynamics that she decided to organise an online lab to find out how other artists handle the issue. She called it ‘The Jobs We Work’. The idea turned out to be timely: forty-nine people joined the lab. Only one of them, Ivan Simonov (b. 1991), was earning enough money as an artist to support himself. The subject overlaps with his own work, as he has long been interested in the economy of artistic labour and has dedicated several projects to it. Participants met over Zoom, shared their experiences and attended online lectures on the subject. “It turned out that artists working as designers had the most difficult relationships with their jobs”, says Tararova. Surprisingly, those working in the least creative fields seemed to be the happiest with their lives and did not feel guilty or frustrated when switching roles. “The happiest ones were a tower crane operator and a food industry technologist,” Simonov recalls. They felt fulfilled in their professional lives, and their day job did not interfere with their artistic practice. They enjoyed both and remained financially secure. Many artists admitted that their day jobs liberated them from constraints imposed by the art market. “A day job is a way to not have to adapt to the current situation, to be independent – ​​it’s not necessary to paint or draw,” stated one of the participants, Alya Segova, during a public talk at the end of the lab. This talk was recorded and is currently available on YouTube (in Russian). Their thoughts echo those of artists of a previous generation who had to survive in a very different economy. “Unlike my fellow artists, who worked as book illustrators or took government commissions, I was able to keep my mind free for my art,” Klara Golitsyna (b. 1925), a matriarch of unofficial art who used to work as a technical draftswoman in a government design bureau, once told me. Yearning for such freedom, Tararova began considering a job as a gardener in a Moscow park to free her mind from the daily pressure of her ‘creative’ day job.

“One of the main reasons why artists do not make money from their art is their reluctance to view it as an entrepreneurial activity. This leads to internal conflict,” Simonov notes. “Once you start taking sales factors into account, it can distort your artistic practice. Non-spectacular art, installations or performance art are not in demand on the market”. He himself tries to consciously switch between the roles of creator and entrepreneur. “When I am working on a piece, I focus solely on making it the best artwork I can. Once I have finished it, I start thinking about how to promote it.” However, he admits that it can be very difficult to ignore financial considerations entirely when artistic practice is your only source of income. He notes that many stereotypes and stigmas, sometimes imposed by art schools, can hinder financial success. “It is bad form to be pushy. It is bad form to write to collectors or galleries. It is bad form to try to make yourself known. It is bad form to be active on social media and promote your work. In short, actively promoting one’s own art is considered ‘bad form’. Yet these very steps allow artists to make money from their art,” he says. Artists with well-paid day jobs are free from these anxieties.

This financial insecurity affects artists with children the most. “A female artist often has to choose between having children and pursuing her art. You can not tell your kids, ‘Next time, we’ll eat dinner in September,’” noted Marina Dyakonova, a participant in the lab, during the public talk.

In May, Tararova’s lab concluded with a three-day exhibition showcasing works of art created by participants on the theme of balancing a career with an artistic practice. The exhibition took place at the Korney Gallery in Moscow. Some of the works on display revealed the desperation worthy of a 19th century opera about impoverished bohemians. “In the darkest times of my life, I considered working in escort services or a massage parlour so that I could earn enough money to support my artistic practice,” wrote Irina Gulyakina in a description of her video art piece ‘Everything for the Sake of Art’. Conversely, it turns out that a ‘non-arty’ profession can enrich an artist’s practice with novel ideas and solutions. Ivan Khryaschikov, a food technologist, created a series of abstract works from coloured caramel. Vassily Razumov, a businessman, tackled the issue of financial insecurity head on by issuing bonds for ‘The First Art Loan’, promising to donate all the proceeds to Tararova's self-organised artist residency, TwinPlyos. This is located in her family’s dacha in the small town of Plyos, 400 kilometres from Moscow. Currently, Tararova is installing a sewage system there, paying the bills with her credit cards. She hopes to pay off the debt through a crowdfunding campaign. One thing that artists from all professional backgrounds seem to have in common is unfailing optimism and mutual support.