When I worked in international philanthropy, it was damn near impossible to get funders to appreciate why funding programmes under the umbrella of art and culture was important.
Some of the top reasons that still stay with me about why that is are;
Most programmes catered to the arts do not fit neatly into the “poverty porn” trope that the development industry thrives on. When funders (often existing outside of cultural context) decide on what they deem important in Global South societies such as ours, they still want to hear stories that are littered with signs of our suffering and tragedies. A kind of emphasis about how badly we need them. Somehow art, artistry and culture are the anthesis of this kind of struggle and scarcity narrative. Art and artistry and culture are defined as something that is for people who already have.
We too as a people have devalued the role of art in our own societies. I think now about all the ways that it manifests. Scrapping off courses offering humanities at university level. Different pay scales for teachers teaching subjects considered to be outside of the science bracket. Parents refusing their children to pursue artistic callings, and so on.
I find that so curious, and I spend a lot of time reflecting on the effects of it. A few things stay with me. The first is that art in all its forms shapes culture. It greatly influences who we know ourselves to be, what we deem important, how we remember history and think about the future. The second thing is how much of our narratives are shaped and controlled by contexts outside of our own, and all the ways that limits our image of ourselves, and our ability to be whole. We must be alive to whose narratives we are left with when we are not ourselves, or creators of our own art in all the forms it comes.
Existing now in full embrace of my artistry; as a writer responding to a call to say the words that need to be said, I appreciate more strongly the weight of these limitations and their consequences.
I have been struck by how little (international philanthropic) support truly exists for this kind of definitive work. It is not that I did not know of it (when I worked as a funder in philanthropy), but having experienced it, I have a new kind of appreciation for what the stakes are. A key thing that limits us as people (kin and skin folk specifically), is not that we are not talented or capable, it is simply lack of access. And very specifically, it is the lack of access to resources (money and otherwise) that allows for the spaciousness dreams need to take root and actualise.
In the West, when a writer seeks to put out a book, the mainstream way to do this would be to pitch a manuscript to an agent (if they have one). Who then takes it to a publisher. Who might issue a paid writing advance to the writer. When the book is published, there is an infrastructure or network of book stores to distribute the books. A marketing machinery that ensures we all know that the book is out. Depending on the kind of writer, there are possible speaking tours to further promote the book – and so much more. All this is potentially paid for by the publishing industry or available philanthropic funds for the arts.
Given that most writers don’t write books to get rich in Global South communities that do not have this infrastructure or philanthropic funds, where does the money to support the literary arts come from?
Anytime you hear that a writer has self-published, it’s a fancy way to say the book was produced with the funding of money from friends, family and community. Yet when we think about local arts funding, we rarely think of the community as co-funders of the arts. There is something about this term “self-published” that downplays the local funding provided by communities in supporting the literary arts.
There is something about this term “self-published” that downplays the local funding provided by communities in supporting the literary arts.
In 2024, I set out to do a public recital of poems from my three “self-published” books. The venue we used was offered as an in-kind donation and yet I suspect the venue owners might not classify themselves as supporters or funders of the arts. Yet they indeed are community funders of the arts. This is precicely how the arts in Global South communities are mainly funded: through the modest but powerful donations of everyday people – not big international foundations. If you doubt this model of funding, consider the crowd funding platform Kickstater’s own guidenace that says “in the Art and Photography categories, the average pledge (donation) is around USD $70,” and 70% to 90% of backers (donors) will come from the artists’ community. While Kickstarter is a tech platform, it mirrors community philanthropy for the arts that happens outside tech platforms in Global South communities.
Thinking back at the evening public recital event we hosted and which was funded by community resources, that evening’s conversations ranged from history, identity, rights, to solving problems that matter to us. Something about it also brought to the surface “the NGO-ization of the human rights and cultural struggle” (a blog for another day).
Undoubtedly, we need more money channelled directly into the hands of artists creating and dreaming. This work is important and vital especially now with all the kind of erasure and silencing that is forced upon us. Our invitation for those funding the arts, art infrastructure and art-infused narratives around the world is to start a conversation with any “self-published author / artists” you know. It is possible to create a world in which local money gets the work made and international money helps it move. This way, we can start to see and appreciate the art funding infrastructure fully, especially when it combines both local and international funding for the arts.
A version of this article was first published on Twasiima Bigirwa’s LinkedIn post, and has been edited for the Treehouse.