Myths We Die On: The Cultural Illusion of Success

I used to think that being interviewed about your worldviews meant you’d made it. That if you had a Wikipedia page, were invited to panels, or profiled in a respected magazine, your career must be structurally sound.

Then I read Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s Black Swan, specifically his chapter on the probability distribution of success in creative fields—how a tiny few make outsized returns, while the rest drift in the long tail. Around the same time, I learned the average Dutch screenwriter makes about €20,000 a year.

That’s when the image cracked. What I had taken for arrival was, in most cases, just a careful performance of success. Respect without reinforcement. Visibility without viability.

1. The Aesthetic of Seriousness

The cultural field is good at aesthetics. It knows how to package people. A well-lit photo. A staged panel. An essay about millennial burnout, freezing your eggs, or being a woman in tech—written in lyrical prose with just enough distance to feel serious. The work may be minor, but the framing is major.

But seriousness is not the same as success. The image of a life is not the infrastructure of a life. Most people I once admired—people who seemed established—are quietly broke. Renting indefinitely. Living in social housing. No pension. Still applying for project funding at age 45. Still calling themselves “emerging.”

2. Symbolic Capital vs. Real Capital

The field runs on symbolic capital: prizes, residencies, mentions, fellowships, interviews. These are its currencies. They open doors. They give the illusion of movement.

But symbolic capital doesn’t scale. It doesn’t accumulate. It doesn’t compound. It rewards being seen, not being solvent.

Real capital: money, autonomy, leverage, long-term control, is often treated like it doesn’t belong. You’re meant to be devoted, not ambitious. Loyal to the work, not to your own viability.

Zoom out, and it’s clear: the field is full of brilliant people who are financially dependent, structurally unstable, and quietly exhausted.

3. The Performance of Success

I’ve been in these rooms. The festivals, the roundtables, the artist dinners. We all looked successful. We all had something clever to say. None of us could afford a mortgage.

People shared their latest project, residency, or commission. Nobody mentioned the freelance job they’d picked up under the radar. Or the rent they were late on. Or the panic behind the Instagram post.

I used to think this was just a phase. That it would get better. But it doesn’t. For most people, this is it.

4. The Systemic Design Flaw

This isn’t about individual failure. The system is built to encourage output, not stability. Artists are rewarded for being expressive, but not for building anything that lasts.

Everything is short-term: the project, the stipend, the panel, the grant. You’re meant to keep applying. Keep producing. Keep being grateful.

It rewards presence, not power. Movement, not momentum.

You can publish a book, win a prize, appear on national television—and still be counting down to the next €1,500 grant. Still in survival mode.

And underneath all of this? Two more systems quietly shaping the outcomes: social choreography and gatekeeping.

5. The Social Choreography of Progress

Success doesn’t climb in a straight line. It circulates. Sideways energy. And the real fuel isn’t just talent—it’s proximity. Being seen. Being known. Being in the right orbit.

It’s not called networking. That would be too obvious. It’s called “community,” or “mutual support,” or “emerging voices.” But it functions the same.

Those who rise don’t always have more brilliance. Just slightly better timing. Slightly better posture. They know how to show up just enough, charming, light, legible. They play the game without appearing to.

And that’s enough to move one step ahead. A step that someone sharper, deeper, or more original might not take, because they refuse to bend into the shape the scene expects.

It’s not a meritocracy. It’s a soft hierarchy, held up by likability, legibility, and gatekeeper comfort.

6. The Gatekeepers Who Profit

Then there’s the other layer: the organizers, curators, and professional conveners. The people who build careers not by creating, but by collecting creators. Often under the banner of collaboration. Often with a salary.

I once took part in a book project run by a foundation. On paper, it was about shared storytelling. In practice, it was a funding model. Contributors paid a fee, did the writing and design, and received discounted copies—though the printing costs were so high there was no real margin left.

There was no editorial direction. No plan to sell. No ambition beyond getting it made. And that was the point. The existence of the book justified the next grant. The labor was the product.

It was a perfect case study: a system where artists do the work, and the facilitator walks away with another feather in their cap, another check in the bank.

They don’t need the work to succeed. They just need it to exist.

7. My Pivot: From Symbol to Substance

At some point, I stopped trying to win at a game that doesn’t reward winning.

I started looking at economics. Value. Demand. Positioning. Systems that scale. Not out of greed—out of clarity.

I saw the difference between performing success and building it. Between being applauded for working for free, and building structures that actually hold.

Money isn’t the problem. The silence around it is. And I’m done being congratulated for effort that can’t support a life.

What I want now is simple:

• Systems that work.

• Income that compounds.

• Value that doesn’t evaporate when no one’s watching.

I still want depth. I still want meaning. But I no longer believe they have to come at the cost of viability.

8. Why It Matters

The cultural sector survives on the hope of the next generation. It thrives on young talent believing that visibility leads somewhere. That if they work hard enough, write beautifully enough, endure long enough, they’ll eventually be lifted into stability.

But if we don’t speak about the truth, about the structural poverty of the field, we send them down the same path of beautiful sacrifice. We teach them to trade their twenties and thirties for bylines, panels, and quotes, without ever questioning whether the system is designed to hold them.

We romanticize survival. We call it devotion. But in the end, it’s just a broken economy with excellent lighting.

And I am no longer interested in lighting.

I am interested in structure.