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How To Retire Without Money
By Bob Belmont
CHAPTER 6
AMERICA'S ART COLONIES
Page 1 of 9
THE art colony is an interesting institution peculiar not only
to the United States. In fact, you find them even more often
in Mexico and Europe, and for all I know all over the world
where there are artists. Since retiring from the grind, I have
personally lived in such art colonies in America, Mexico,
Spain, Italy and Morocco. And always I've found stimulating
qualities in both the towns and their populations.
When I say
artist, I don't, of course, mean just painters. Your art
colonies will attract the practitioners of every art in the
book— and some not in the book. There will be painters,
sculptors, writers, composers, actors, photographers,
musicians, handicraft practitioners and what not. Above all
there will be large numbers of pseudo-artists who do a great
deal of talking, cocktail in hand, about painting or writing,
or whatever, but very little real work. And then there will be
even larger numbers of folk who like to hang around artists
and consider themselves intellectuals, whatever that means.
But in spite
of the large number of phonies to be found in the average art
colony they still have their fascination. Usually there is an
art school or two, in case you are interested yourself
seriously or just as a hobby, and always there are the
stimulating conversations, the strange new ideas, the heated
arguments, the striving for expression.
Why and what
is an art colony? Well, it usually goes something like this.
An artist, or group of artists, finds some cheap place in
which to live, trying to locate it in a spot of scenic beauty
and preferably where the weather is good. The economical part
of it is a prime necessity since artists seem almost always to
be short of money. Having located such a place, they write
their friends and in one way and another the word gets around.
Here is a beauty spot, here are other artists with whom to
associate, here one can get a little cabin and work at one's
art very well indeed on very little money.
More artists
move in, and sooner or later one of the travel magazines or
art publications writes the town up, naming it an art colony.
So still more people hear about the place, including the above
mentioned pseudo-artists and the hangers-on. And the town
begins to fill. Where formerly you could rent a little cabin
for possibly $200 a month, there is a housing shortage and
rents double. Where formerly you could buy a jug of red wine
(in the west) or applejack (in the east) for five dollars or
so from one of the local citizens, now a liquor store goes up.
Where formerly there was a little local tavern where you sat
around in the evenings having a beer or two, a flashy
nightclub and two or three neon-lit bars complete with
juke-boxes, take over. Where formerly you got your milk and
butter, a bushel of potatoes and an occasional chicken, from
one of the local farmers, now somebody opens a supermarket and
it becomes the only place you can buy food.
Before you
know it, the town is booming. Souvenir shops arise, swank
hotels go up, the local beanery is expanded into a garish
restaurant with high prices and a French chef.
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