A portrait of deception

Aww man, I wonder if all those artsy fartsy indie magazines had been lying to us all the time. How is it remotely possible that a person - you tell me - that a human being can survive off making niche knick-knacks they do?? How? HOW? Tell me how?

How is it  that Mr. Red Checkered Shirt (they always wear checkers in some form or another) in his fancy beret and linen scarf around his neck gets a 4-page spread about how he 'thoroughly enjoys doing what he loves to do for a living' by making customised painted twigs as a full-time job. Or how Miss Oversized Sunglasses who grows organic turnips in moss-lined tin cans is being interviewed out of the her gorgeous 8-room village cottage. Hey, I'd love to sell organic turnips and paint twigs too. But unless they go for $200 a pop I'll be living out of a cardboard box and wearing plastic bags. Reading art indie zines is like fantasy brain-porn where the idealised artist is presented as some fairy who toils happily away in comfort and bliss. No bills to pay, no taxes to file, no mouths to feed and no ugly reality to face. Oh, and that beautiful sunlit studio/atelier they all have where everyone sits around and sip tea while strumming on a vintage guitar. Is it all pure photographic powder?

I thought being an artist was all fun and games.
But it was only how it looked in the light.