UCKIOOD

Was It Worth It? The True Cost of Becoming Honoraria

December 27 2022

Missy recounts what really happened in 2022 and how it nearly destroyed uckiood - and us.

In March 2022 we got the news that the Burning Man Organization had awarded us Honoraria for the upcoming creation of our brand new collection of sculptures, The Little People. Hooray!

We were used to creating multi-piece installations in our normal studio practice and this would be our fourth art project on the playa. We had contributed self-funded installations in 2012, 2017 and 2018, so we knew the drill. We were accustomed to the workload, financial burden and physical challenges of creating and installing out in the Nevadan desert. And now Kim, a veteran burner since 2005, had finally realized the dream of getting on the hallowed Honoraria list. 

However, when the offer finally came in, things had significantly changed. While our peers were bouncing up and down with excitement, we faltered. We thought about it hard. We knew the proposal was excellent - we had, after all, been selected for Honoraria for the doomed 2020 event - and the armatures and foam form carvings of Dot and Chip, the two main characters of The Little People, had already been created. Yet, in the interval between re-submitting the LOI in November 2021 and getting the nod in March 2022, our motivation levels and confidence in the project had plummeted. 

We said no. We apologized profusely. While we were incredibly touched by the offer, we were afraid that we wouldn’t be able to devote the time needed to do justice to The Little People, let alone find the excess funds required to make it a reality. Prices of materials had sky-rocketed since 2020 and we had only just got back on our feet since Covid had wrecked the studio’s 2020/21 showing calendar. We couldn’t see how we could even afford the personal expense of getting there given the state of our finances. Any income the studio made was immediately being siphoned off to chip away at the Massive Debt Mountain we had incurred during the pandemic. Our artist ‘wages’, if you can call them that, were practically at zero. Sure, we would get free tickets as Honoraria artists, but the cost of a dog sitter, truck hire, gas, food, water, bike repairs, shade structures, kitchen stuff, clothes, toiletries, and all the crusty detritus that even the most basic of camps need would be out of reach. (It is probably worth mentioning here that we had - and still have - an ethical problem with asking the community for financial help in creating artwork. So many people had endured financial destitution in the pandemic, it felt entirely inappropriate to add yet another Gofundme to the already sagging list of artists - who were in reality a lot more high-profile or popular than us - begging for cash. And besides, we run a professional sculpture studio and believe that all expenses for any project, including those projects that go to the playa, must be covered either by the sale of other works or come from a dedicated grant.) 

So we asked that the opportunity go to someone else. After the refusal email had been sent, we stumbled in numb shock to the pub to drown our sorrows.

The next morning, we woke to another email. It was incredibly rare for an artist to decline a grant, said Artery. So would we, with some negotiation, reconsider our decision? They needed an answer by the end of the day. 

The pressure got to us. Despite our internal radars screaming NO NO NO, THIS IS A FUCKING TERRIBLE IDEA, our resolve weakened and all our grown-up arguments unraveled like a bad trip. Buoyed by Artery’s boost to the ego and the rare offer of hard cash, we convinced ourselves it would be fine. It would be a huge challenge but we were used to working extremely long hours for virtually no pay. We had pared down the proposal to make it more manageable after all. We’d taken huge financial risks and made massive sacrifices throughout our career and it had worked out well. Creating Odd Jelly Out for Burning Man in 2018 had ultimately been worth it, with iterations popping up all over the PNW, and a version even ending up on permanent display in the lobby of a swanky new skyscraper in downtown Seattle. Most of all, we remembered the good times out there. We would see our friends. We’ve done nothing, seen no one, nor been fucking nowhere for two years, so let’s go. We deserve a vacation - albeit a working one. 

Decision reversed, we started work full time on the project almost immediately. Things began to ramp up before you could say fuck yer burn. By the end of April, the nicely paced work plan was out the window and we were already hitting a minimum of ten hours’ work a day on the project, seven days a week. Aside from Kim and I, we had one crew member on board but, understandably, he couldn’t commit to massive amounts of time as he was busy with, you know, a proper job. We also felt that asking the community for help was an impossibility. We had been burned in the past by idiots who really wanted to help out yet had merely used us as a convenient freebie machine for WAPs and tickets. We simply didn’t have enough hours in the day to train someone to carve forms, mix colors, apply toxic resins, laminate and sand fiberglass, never mind accommodate an extra body in the studio which was the size of a postage stamp. And besides, we were professionals, we were radically self-reliant, this was our job. 

From April to mid August, I can count the number of days off we had on one hand. It was relentless. We closeted ourselves away from family and friends. No time to meet, rushed off our feet, we are so sorry. Aside from being in physical pain - our backs, arms and hands were screaming from hours of sanding and our faces were marked from constant respirator usage - our mental health was teetering on the brink. Dead on our feet, petty tensions started bubbling up, silly technical mistakes started to occur and our ability to problem solve went out the window. Meditation and daily walks at sunrise to control anxiety levels weren’t cutting it. Every night, we were chucking crappy food into our mouths because we didn’t have time to cook and we were mainlining booze in a desperate desire to deal. Despite the exhaustion, sleep eluded us. Each night, we would pad around the house in the small hours because we were either panicking about the sheer amount to do, trying to work through technical difficulties in our heads, or were simply too fucking tired to sleep. Kim descended into an extremely dark and dangerous place, but felt unable to talk to anyone - least of all me - because he needed to just keep on fucking going and not make a fuss. I was spiralling too, sitting in the truck day after day and just staring numbly into space, thinking I can’t do this anymore but I can’t fucking get out of it. We were in big trouble. 

We discussed cutting corners or compromising on quality, but that isn’t who we are or what we do. We strongly believe that if you make a small piece of work to take to the playa, it must be fucking stellar. If you refuse to board the BIGGER IS BETTER train, you have to knock people’s socks off in other ways - with characterization, with detail, with heart, with gesture, with quirk, with humor. And even the art we take to the playa must be as brilliant as the stuff we put in a gallery or in another public/private space, both conceptually and technically. 

So we kept going. We know we are struggling but this is what we signed up for, we said. Being an artist always comes with these rollercoaster highs and lows. Stay positive, it’s just a few more weeks. This is a piece of public art which will bring joy to the Burner community and beyond. 

We convinced ourselves that once we got the forms finished, packed up and loaded into the truck, we could relax. Five months of complete hell would be over. We could install the project, coast around the playa and reap the rewards of all our hard work. Once again, we would have the satisfaction of being an active participant in one of the best events on the planet and see our lovely, fellow Burners finally engage with The Little People as intended. 

The reality couldn’t have been more different. We finished the sculptures with three days to spare. Just enough time to sort hastily through the camp bins and aging infrastructure, buy food and booze, and chuck everything in the back of the truck. Forget fucking outfits. I would be lucky if I had time to clean my dungarees and find enough underwear for the two weeks away. 

By the time we got on playa during build week, we were already spent. On our first night, a storm with 50 mph winds flattened our camp which didn’t improve our mood. Installation of the project was nigh on impossible because of constant white outs. But, in all honesty, the weather wasn’t the problem. Everyone was dealing with it. We had expected this. We were seasoned old hands at wielding drills and wiring batteries in driving wind, 115 heat and zero visibility. The problem was us.   

Exhausted beyond exhausted, our bodies and minds were empty. Moments of joy were fleeting. We were unhappy and frequently in tears. I retreated into my shell and couldn’t stomach introducing myself to our neighbors. Our tempers were short. I was shouting insults at people on the street like a crazed weirdo. I even had trouble even holding a conversation. Friends would visit our little camp and I’d just stare blankly at them, often unable to speak. Looking people in the eye was a struggle. We felt terrible for our lovely campmates to whom we must have appeared the biggest Party Poopers on the Planet. We were supposed to be enjoying ourselves, for fuck’s sake. Just keep going. Smile. Be nice. 

The Little People were resolutely holding up against the blistering heat and regular dust storms. Their relentless optimism was in stark contrast to their creators. Each day we would drag ourselves out to the project just off the 9 o’clock promenade to change batteries, check for damage and make repairs. When we were alone, I would sit on the central seat under Lolly the Lion’s lantern with my head in my hands. Please tell me that, one day, this will have all been worth it because it fucking well doesn’t feel like it right now. Most days we found that Burners were using the installation as a glorified bike rack, the rest of the hoards weaving through the sculptures like they were dogshits on the sidewalk, desperate to get the perfect shot in front of DJ WankBoi on Mayan Fucking Warrior. Normally we would have just laughed, but this time, it fucking stung. 

By the time we had packed up the project, checked out of Artery and torn down camp, the relief was so tangible you could almost lick it. The playa - like us - was almost empty. Our final night was spent sitting watching the sunset with a bottle of Bordeaux and a packet of Goldfish. It was finally over and all we had to do was get back in one piece. Or so we thought. 

Back home in Seattle, we had barely got the dust out of our hair when we got the call to dash down to the Oregon/California border. A fellow Burner had fallen in love with The Little People and wanted to buy the installation. This was incredibly rare, said Artery again. 

Would we be prepared to drive down and drop off immediately? Of course, we said. We frantically cleaned and repaired the sculptures overnight, rented yet another truck and loaded one more time. We can’t believe this has happened, we said. We’re so lucky. We can do this. Just one more push. 

So just ten days after returning from Nevada, we were back on the road again. Like idiots on speed, we did the whole 1000 mile round trip in 36 hours. At least this time round we had Peg the dog in tow. 

By the time we got home we were exhausted but elated. The client had been one of the loveliest, most interesting people we had ever met. The Little People looked perfectly at home with him and his partner. The sale had gone a little further in chipping away at our Massive Debt Mountain and we had bought ourselves a bit of financial breathing space, at least for a couple of months. 

Within days of our return, however, our elation collapsed. We both crashed and could barely function. Unmotivated and burned out, we were now oversleeping and frittering the days away. Just the thought of working, even on the most basic of tasks, made us feel physically sick. Applying for calls and RFPs? No. Working on new sculptures? No. Social media? Fuck No. Even just the day-to-day admin of running the business? No. 

We managed to spring clean the studio in a desperate attempt to kickstart ourselves into action but we were painfully aware that any financial or artistic momentum we had was ebbing away fast. Feelings of uselessness and guilt were becoming overwhelming. We were already carrying the burden of mutual regret - of letting our hubris push us into a ridiculous situation which was downright dangerous. But moreover, not having the emotional capacity to support each other when we were falling apart. Now we were also facing the mounting guilt of doing a big pile of nothing, every single fucking day. 

On top of this emotional fallout, we were contending with physical illness and injury. Denied the adrenalin boost of the last five months, our bodies had finally given up. Creating The Little People had resulted in permanent injuries to Kim’s hand and my back, two trips to the ER in as many months, as well as precipitating my need for surgery, surgery which was to change my life forever. We had abused our bodies in the pursuit of artistic success, and now we were paying the price.    

So was it worth it? The decisions we made in early 2022 almost destroyed uckiood - and us. After two months of barely any work, sickness and a limping recovery, we now see that not standing by our initial decision to refuse the Honoraria offer was a huge mistake. The delicious irony of creating a project like The Little People, which embodies so much innocence and childlike joy but which almost destroyed its creators, is a hard pill to swallow. The fallout has been so big that it will have a significant impact on how we work, how we live - and whether we will ever go back to Burning Man.

If you saw us on social media or even in person in 2022, you would not have come close to knowing what was going on. We are professionals. This is our job, after all. We’ve had an immense year on paper but the cost has been immeasurable and now we are in a position where we are debating our future. The sad truth is that even working the hours we have and with big, regular grants and sales under our belts, we still cannot sustain ourselves financially.

I chose to write this because I think it is important for people to have an insight into the realities of a career which appears so exciting and enticing from the outside yet which by virtue of its financial hardship, physical pain and mental fuckery brings apparently talented, confident, successful people to the absolute brink.

And as for Burners who think that being an Honoraria artist would be a cool summer project, or think that the artwork just magically pops up on the playa as free rad props for your selfies, this shit can fucking kill. 

Four months since leaving for Nevada and despite an uncertain future, we are finally working again on a brand new piece of sculpture. Just being able to go into the studio, discuss ideas and handle materials is a massive step forward. The expansive, enveloping form represents a massive great big, comforting cuddle we so sorely need. We hope it will find a home in 2023 and bring happiness like The Little People ultimately was able to. 

We owe a huge debt of gratitude to a phenomenal group of people. Thank you to Artery, in particular Katie and Joe. A massive thank you to Marcus for all his hard work, as well as Nancy, Gordon, Rebecca, Denise and Dustin. You were a source of unbelievable support, forbearance and friendship for which we will be forever grateful. Thank you to Aaron for looking after Peg so brilliantly in our absence. And of course, Sheldon. Your enthusiasm and love for our work was an unexpected and beautiful surprise.

You can see more images from the project here.