Things every beginning artist must understand

By Noel Galon de Leon

Whether you are a writer, a visual artist, a filmmaker, a dancer, or work in any other creative field, one of the very first things you must understand, especially as a beginning artist, is that art is work. Art is not a vague talent that magically appears; it is a form of labor. You spend hours on it, you train for it, you study it, and you fail at it repeatedly so you can become better. From the very beginning, you must recognize that your art is something you produce through effort, discipline, and commitment.

Because you invest time, energy, sweat, and sometimes even your health into your art, it deserves respect, not only from others but from yourself first. Respect does not end with applause, likes, or compliments. Respect means acknowledging that an artist, like any other worker, has material needs. Artists pay rent, electricity, water, transportation, and food. They buy medicine when they get sick and materials when they need to create. Art does not exist apart from life; it exists within the human experiences that must be sustained.

There is nothing shameful about putting a price on your creative work. In fact, dignity begins when an artist learns to see their art as labor, not just as passion. Loving what you do does not mean you must do it for free. Passion does not cancel hunger. When you give your art a value, you are not betraying creativity—you are protecting your ability to continue creating.

Many of us were never told this clearly by the older generations of artists who came before us. Often, their advice was: “It’s okay to give your art away,” “It’s okay to sell it cheap,” or “It’s okay if it’s free.” While generosity has its place, this mindset has also contributed to the exploitation of artists. Eventually, every artist reaches a moment of clarity: all creative expression must have value because it becomes part of your life’s survival.

Admiration alone cannot sustain an artist. Praise must, at some point, be converted into economic value, through commissions, grants, ticket sales, workshops, or fair compensation. This conversion is not greed; it is a bridge. It allows an artist to continue working, growing, and deepening their craft without being forced to abandon it for survival.

One important thing every beginning artist must know is that uncertainty is normal. You will doubt yourself constantly. You will compare yourself to others. In places like the Philippines, especially in cities outside Metro Manila such as Iloilo City, opportunities may feel limited. But limitation is not the same as impossibility. Many artists in Iloilo started with small community shows, local readings, barangay festivals, or university-based events before finding wider recognition.

Another essential lesson is learning how to navigate your local context. In Iloilo City, for example, artists often rely on cultural centers, universities, independent cafés, galleries, and festivals like Dinagyang as platforms. Understanding where your art can live, who your audience is, and where they gather is part of being a professional artist, not just a creative one.

A beginning artist must also learn how to communicate clearly about their work. This includes writing proposals, explaining concepts, setting boundaries, and negotiating fees. Many Filipino artists struggle with this because we are taught to be humble to the point of silence. But clarity is not arrogance. Being able to articulate your value is a skill that protects you from exploitation.

You must also accept that not everyone will understand or appreciate your art, and that is okay. In a society where practicality is often prioritized, choosing an artistic life may be seen as irresponsible. Relatives may ask when you will get a “real job.” Friends may not show up to your shows. These moments hurt, but they are part of the path. Being an artist often means walking ahead of understanding.

Financial instability is another reality that beginning artists must face honestly. There will be months of abundance and long periods of scarcity. This is why learning basic financial literacy—budgeting, saving, diversifying income—is crucial. Many artists in Iloilo balance teaching, freelance work, or cultural projects alongside their personal practice. This does not make them less of an artist; it makes them sustainable.

A critical thing to remember is that your worth is not measured by visibility alone. Social media numbers do not define the depth or sincerity of your work. Some of the most meaningful art happens quietly, in notebooks, rehearsal rooms, editing timelines, and late nights when no one is watching. Learn to value the invisible labor behind your art.

Community is another pillar you should not ignore. Find fellow artists who understand your struggles. In the Philippines, artist collectives often become chosen families, sharing resources, spaces, and emotional support. In Iloilo, small writing groups, theater ensembles, and visual art collectives have helped artists survive not just creatively, but emotionally.

Criticism will come, and you must learn to listen without breaking. Not all criticism is useful, but some of it will sharpen you. Learn to separate critique of your work from attacks on your identity. This skill takes time, and no one masters it immediately.

You must also understand that progress is not linear. There will be moments when you feel you are moving backward. Projects will fail. Applications will be rejected. Shows will be cancelled. This does not mean you are not an artist; it means you are living the artist’s life.

Do not be afraid to experiment. Try new forms, new themes, new collaborations. Many Filipino artists discover their voice only after years of trying to sound like someone else. Failure is not wasted time—it is research.

When you fail the first time, try again. And when you fail again, try differently. This is one of the most beautiful things about being an artist: you are allowed to begin again. Each attempt teaches you something about your limits, your desires, and your resilience.

Over time, you will begin to understand the deeper role of art in your life. It will no longer be just output or recognition, it becomes a way of surviving emotionally, politically, and spiritually in a difficult world. Art becomes a language you use to speak to yourself when words fail.

You must also learn to rest. Burnout is real, especially in underfunded art scenes. Rest is not laziness; it is maintenance. Just as a dancer rests their body and a writer rests their mind, every artist must protect their capacity to create.

Be critical of systems that romanticize your suffering. The idea of the “starving artist” is not noble—it is harmful. Poverty does not make art better. Support, resources, and stability allow artists to take greater risks and produce more meaningful work.

Learn to document your work. Keep records, photos, drafts, and reflections. These archives matter, for applications, grants, and your own memory. Many artists only realize the value of documentation when they are asked to prove years of invisible labor.

Understand that success has many forms. It may look like a gallery show, a published book, a funded film, or simply the ability to keep creating without self-betrayal. Do not let other people define what a “real artist” looks like.

In cities like Iloilo, where art scenes are intimate, relationships matter. Be kind, but also be discerning. Not every opportunity is good for you, and not every collaboration is fair. Learn when to say yes, and when to walk away.

Remember that your voice matters because it is rooted in your experience. Your language, your accent, your local stories, all of these are strengths. The world does not need another imitation; it needs your specific way of seeing.

As you grow, your responsibility also grows, not just to yourself, but to those who come after you. One day, you will be the “older artist.” What values will you pass on? Will you teach younger artists to undervalue themselves, or to stand with dignity?

Finally, do not stop trying. Try again, and again, and again. This is the gift of the artist’s life: the freedom to search, to fail, to begin anew. As long as you continue, your art continues to deepen, not just as a practice, but as a way of living truthfully in the world.