Having to ask for money

I remember, a while back, hearing the writer Cristina Morales explain that if they wanted to send her a job offer, whether it was to invite her to a festival, a talk, or a dialogue, they should write the estimated amount in the subject line of the email. So, yes: along with the subject ("Poetry recital for festival X"), they should add how much money they were offering for the job. She said that, otherwise, she wouldn't bother opening it. At the time, it seemed exaggerated, a bit over the top, but in time I have to agree. We order the whole loaf of bread to get crumbs, you know, and now I'm happy if they tell me in the body of the email, without me having to ask, how much they'll pay me. However, normally you have to respond with, "Excuse me, what's your budget?" or "Do you plan on paying fees?" with fear, as if I were asking for the wrong thing.

You'll say it's because we have trouble talking about money, but that's not true. We talk all the time, without stopping: about how much we're charging for rent, to feel less alone; about how much we're paying in rent, to grieve together; or how much we're being charged, to share our joy. About whether Vinícius will be the most expensive signing in the history of football; about whether Rubiales has been ordered to pay Jenni Hermoso a daily meal; or whether Barça doesn't have a dime. Perhaps what's happening is that we've assumed that there are sectors in which money, at first glance, isn't important. And it's curious, because this happens in the most precarious sectors, like culture. We ask with fear, as if we're asking for something we shouldn't, because it's understood that in our chosen profession, passion comes first, and pennies come later. It still seems unthinkable to us to say out loud that if I go to this recital or that one, if I say yes to a dialogue or a conference, if I decline an invitation or accept it, it may be because they pay well or not, or simply because they pay well or not.

I also remember that at the first post-pandemic Tárrega Fair, an artist confessed to me that when she passed her manager's email to the programmers, the person on the other end of the computer, responding, was her. No one else. "It's the only way they'll take me seriously," she said, "the only way I can stop feeling like they're doing me a favor by programming me." It's not easy, having to haggle over the salary they owe you for the work you do. Nor is it easy having to ask if they'll cover travel expenses when they invite you far from home, and you have to argue that if they pay you €200 and you subtract the income tax first, then the gas, and also deduct the menu you have to make between rehearsal and the gig, then you're not getting any more out of it. And it's even less easy to explain to them that if they invite you to a festival that lasts a few days, something that just happened to me, they would have to pay your expenses, as they do for athletes, because if you're away from home it's for work, not for leisure, and the meager (or huge) fees they offer you should never be paid in restaurants back home. If they appreciated the profession, they would understand that meeting these needs is essential to guarantee a good result for the assignment. I've read riders of (Catalan) music groups where they asked the dressing room for some whims that I am ashamed to write about, unthinkable things, really, exaggerated, but adding fifteen euros to the budget to pay for the poet's food or the gasoline that takes him to the last town in Catalonia is unthinkable.

Still, I don't know what the solution is. I've realized that the only way to change the narrative is to talk about money in a way you wouldn't expect me to: clearly, without beating around the bush. I try to explain myself clearly, saying that making a living from it requires demanding good conditions, and, little by little, I blame myself for asking for what, in the first place, should already exist: remuneration and dignity. Then, believe me, it's us, poets and writers, who work for free for pleasure: hosting presentations for friends, charity recitals, donating material for anthologies and compilations... Now, if it's work, at least we pretend that whoever offers it believes that reciting, reading, or speaking is serious work. As if we were going to that auditorium to renovate it, paint it, clean it, or inspect it. We'll talk about the symbolic, social, and cultural value of what we do another day.