The Myth of the Infinite Artist
Somewhere along the way, the arts adopted the worst habits of corporate culture and made them more brutal.
We built a system where working yourself to the edge is a badge of honour and gratitude has twisted into a silencing mechanism.
The Culture of the Room
If you’ve ever worked on a professional show, you know the pace. Two to three weeks of six-day rehearsal weeks. Tech runs that stretch to ten hours inside twelve. Entire shows built and mounted in less time than it takes most offices to plan a quarterly meeting.
Unions allow this.
Funders expect it.
We, the artists, endure it.
Even outdoor theatre (where there isn’t even a lighting cue to justify the hours) still follows the same schedule, because that’s just how it’s done.
And film? Film is even worse!
We’ve absorbed the corporate work week and intensified because the art must be made and there’s never enough time, money, or stability to question the pace.
Gratitude and Scarcity
Artists are trained to be grateful for opportunity. Gratitude is part of our DNA. We love what we do, and we know how lucky we are to do it. But that gratitude often gets twisted into compliance.
Funding is limited. Resources are scarce. So we internalize the belief that rest is indulgent and that asking for care is unprofessional.
The result is a scarcity mindset that seeps into our rehearsal culture.
When everyone in the room feels like they’re replaceable, we stop protecting our energy, our bodies, and our imaginations.
What Real Artistry Needs
We are not infinite. We’re human. And real artistry comes from humanity, not depletion.
Creativity comes from time to observe, to think, to question, to play and to connect.
Creativity needs rest, nourishment, and perhaps most of all, perspective. It needs rooms where care is implicit. Where the goal isn’t to squeeze every drop of brilliance out of a body in three weeks and discard them, but to build an environment where artists can sustain a lifetime of making.
Resisting Urgency
The real way to resist urgency is through transparency.
So much of what drives exhaustion in our field is the unspoken: the quiet assumption that artists will just make it work. A mantra, I myself have employed many times.
There is an assumption that we will meet impossible expectations because we care too much not to.
For Artists
As artists, we can start by being honest about what’s possible. About the energy we have, the limits of our focus, and the time creation truly needs.
We can ask questions before saying yes. We can clarify expectations early, and we can name when the workload feels unsustainable.
We can model transparency:
“I need a break to do this well”
“I can meet that goal, but I’ll need an extra day”
It challenges the idea that professionalism means endurance at any cost.
And those with privilege have an added responsibility to model this publicly. Transparency from the top gives permission to everyone else in the room to be human, too.
For Leaders and Producers
Transparency is also leadership.
When we’re clear about capacity and expectations, we make healthier rooms.
Be upfront about what’s possible with the budget and timeline.
Don’t assume people will overextend themselves to make it happen.
If you’re asking for more, say that you’re asking for more and explain how you’ll accommodate it.
Model sustainability wherever you can. Run five-day weeks instead of six. Build recovery days into schedules. Offer relief where possible. Acknowledge the human cost of urgency instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.
When leaders are transparent, artists can plan their energy. When artists are transparent, leaders can plan with care.