Thank You For Your Time, Effort, And Thoughtfulness…

Time.

The year is 2001, early summertime. The sun has set on a small west Louisville, coffeehouse at the corner of 18th and Muhammad Ali. The Russell neighborhood cafe comes alive on Saturday nights. People from across the city bring their mic stands, guitars, maracas, pianos, notebooks, and smiles. They are there for the weekly open mic. 

I am 13 years old and this is my first time reciting my poetry in front of a crowd. My mother, noticing my affinity for writing, found this event by word of mouth. The Expressions Of You Open Mic is the only place I can recite poetry at my age. I feel anxious while I sit absorbing the various talents on the list and these talents are abundant. From poems like Mike B’s ‘Louisville Lady’, to live and original songs by Darnell Levine and Soul River Brown, to freestyle cyphers led by the dynamic MC ‘adVance’; I soak in the performances until my turn comes. I get up to the mic and shake as I read my poem without looking up. It starts,

“I am the representative, I represent every negro, nigga, and nigger,

Every Black man gunned down, by a white or Black man’s trigger…”

I stop between stanzas because the crowd is reacting so fervently. My ears had never heard the sounds of crowd approval. Once I finish, applause washes away my anxiety and I look up to see a crowd of Black and brown faces cheering. 

From that day on my purpose was realized and my destiny was defined.

My name is Lance G. Newman II but I’m also known as Mr. SpreadLove. I am a Black artist that has been based in Louisville for almost two decades. If you were to google me right now the first 5 things to come up about me are: Finding Black Boy Joy, a play I curated and performed in for Actors Theater of Louisville; my Community Foundation profile as one of the first Hadley Creatives; the OutLoud poetry show in Alabama that featured me; an article about “Southern Fried Poetry Slam,” the fastest growing poetry conference in the nation that I brought and hosted in Louisville in 2017 (and again in 2021); and an event suggestion for the KMAC Poetry Slam, the longest running slam in Louisville, which I host and co-facilitate.

Although this is a mere fraction of my resume and doesn’t include the dozens of schools and community centers I’ve taught in, it illustrates my artistic work well within and outside of Louisville. From hosting poetry readings and events, to creating the spaces for art to be expressed and appreciated. From writing and performing in plays and poetry operas, to teaching creative writing and public speaking... My artistic career in Louisville has been an odyssey of triumph, inspiration, failure, and disillusionment.

On this journey recognition plateaus never gave respite as I climbed the Louisville art scene incline. In less poetic words, the accolades and acknowledgements I received from the local art community and art institutions, have never translated to stability in my actual life – socially or economically.

I established my Arts Education company, SpreadLovEnterprise, in 2013. At this time, I was working full time at two different hotels; teaching my creative writing curriculum (for free) in schools and community centers; and navigating co-parenting of a two year old daughter. Any and all free time I had was spent creating what I called a “poetry pipeline” in Louisville. 

This pipeline begins by teaching youth and adults alike, the art of writing and performing poetry. The pipeline is supported by events and opportunities that I create for new poets to recite their work in front of crowds. Then finally, after putting in work as performers and writers, the program transforms these seasoned artists into educators, effectively giving back the lessons that were given to them and starting the process over again with the next generation of Louisville poets. 

A year after I established my curriculum and facilitated it within a few schools and community centers, I wrote to local funding organizations to infuse my efforts with capital.  At that time, I was working two dead end jobs and I was desperately trying to replace my 9-5 income with an artistic one. My experience in college working with art-based nonprofits, exposed me to grants and their ability to fund these types of organizations. I thought my ‘poetry pipeline’ was a great idea and would surely garner funding. Instead, I received my first rejection letter. It was devastating. That grant money was supposed to help me pay rent for the next month. I also thought that given my track record and its tangible impact, my programming was perfect for the grant’s scope. But never had the phrase, “We regret to inform you” hurt so badly. It diminished my belief in arts institutions and their facade of community outreach. In my mind, I was the community and they rejected me.

Over the past 7 years, 90% of my grant applications to Louisville’s art funding institutions have been rejected.Though I am an accomplished and well-known artist in the city, apparently, to receive funding in this city requires I be a grant writer. I’ve been rejected so much in fact, that I’ve made a special “Rejection Letters” folder in my email inbox.

The letters start off with gratitude: “Thank you (starving artist) for your application to the (we got money) grant.” They then reinforce their gratitude by expressing appreciation for the ‘effort,’ ‘time,’ ‘thoughtfulness,’ ‘patience,’ and other empty acknowledgements of the artists’ work that was put into applying. The word ‘unfortunately’ always follows and can be found in the first or second paragraphs of the rejection letter. The letter mentions how many other applications were considered and very rarely tells you what you did wrong. The letter usually ends by informing you when the next round of applications will be or they leave you to stew in your own disappointment with a platitude that sounds like “We’re grateful for your practice and work. We wish you the best of luck with your art.”

Yeah… Thanks.

Effort.

Thoughtfulness.

Those privileged enough to see the word ‘congratulations’ in their grant application responses, will read these words and challenge the bitterness they were written with. These privileged few will go on to ask, “Well, do you know what they were looking for?” or “maybe you should’ve worded this differently” or “Maybe you should hire a grant writer.” To these folk I say, “I AM STARVING!”

The (Black) artist creating within an economically segregated arts funding scene is expected to be a lawyer, grant writer, economic fortune teller, lobbyist and business person. All the while creating and producing art projects and juggling life’s circumstances. 

Do I know what they were looking for? 

Yes, they were looking for artists to do projects that impact various or certain communities in the city. My work over the years exemplifies this target point. I have BEEN doing this work. Period.  

You think I should have worded something differently, huh?

I thought my job was to create art, not decipher the complex academic language of asking for help. Like am I applying for a grant or taking an IQ test? It puzzles me to think that people are going to school for grant writing. This in itself should be a sign that the grant funding process has become too complicated and has fallen out of touch with the ‘laymen’ they seek to fund. An artist should not have to learn how to write a grant in order to receive one. 

Maybe the project I was promoting wasn’t in the lens of the grant?

But what lens is the grant being seen through? It feels like a capitalistic, paternalistic and socially nepotistic one. When did money for the arts become so capitalistic in nature? The pay-for-play mentality has commandeered an effort that was once purely philanthropic in origin. Many grants force the artist to create a tangible product that not only benefits the community but also the visibility of the grantor. The grantor pays for projects instead of paying the artist. They seek to attach themselves to the project the artist creates. It’s quid pro quo arts funding, performative philanthropy. 

Speaking of performative, a predatory non-profit in Louisville, that I once worked with, received a major grant based on my curriculum, my programming and my physical facilitation. The white leadership of this non-profit courted my talents with promises of system reform, artistic exposure and financial compensation. Before they got their quarter of a million dollar grant, I had a conversation with them about my need for ‘acknowledgement.’

In retrospect, I worded this demand incorrectly. What I should have told them is, I WANT CREDIT! I wanted my name to be on the grant application so that my individual efforts and company would be recognized and certified in the eyes of the greater arts community. I sought validation from the white-owned national arts power structure, because only through their acknowledgement would the local art institutions deem me ‘professional’ or ‘worthy’ of more funding.

The lack of validity has relegated me to living off the scraps of independent contracts to survive. I am not creating art, I am working to pay bills by teaching. The capital to create art comes from the rare financial excess of this work and side hustles of selling merchandise or consulting. Art funding institutions have effectively tamed and curated the revolutionary spirit of art by economically suffocating the Black artist. Making artists beg for leftovers or dance for pennies. The grant application has become a literacy test governing one's participation in the social, political and economic realms of the art world.

In my experience, these art institutions are looking for art that impacts the local community, yet artists who are actually making an impact are forced to submit to academic-type equivalence standards. These institutions are the middle men between private funders and local artists. Being middle men, they take their processing fees in the form of large salaries and operating costs, after which the local artist is left dry and thirsty from a false trickle-down economic theory.

I’ll end this with a reflection. Our editor Minda [Editor’s note: That’s me!], asked me, “What does Louisville’s art scene look like when it uplifts its Black artists?” Honestly, I’ve had the hardest time imagining that Louisville. That Louisville puts its money and resources where its compassionate mouth is. That art scene is deliberate and intentional about funding Black art and Black artists within historically disenfranchised areas and doesn’t make them jump through socio-economic hoops to get funding. That Louisville is about actual acts of compassion and not paying lip service to compassion by flaunting or funding their token person of color. That Louisville will not exist until the people controlling the purse strings of Louisville’s art capital, commit to suffering and give to the Black artist without expectations.

As for me, I’ve stopped pursuing poetry as an artistic funding vehicle. The local funding world is akin to the Eurocentric society we live in and does not respect or support the oral traditions of Black culture. I’ve hit the low ceiling placed above the Louisville poet and decided to invest my energy into other forms of art, such as theater and visual installations. Not necessarily because I wanted to, but because I was forced to. The Black artist, much like the Black resident in a redlined neighborhood, is made to move and adapt their skills to garner income in the ever expanding whiteness of ‘progress,’ seeking refuge with any artistic medium that will feed their family.

It is the year 2020, late summertime. The little West Louisville coffeehouse is now a beloved restaurant called Sweet Peaches and performing arts can no longer be found inside its walls, the ‘destiny’ my younger self defined is unrecognizable, and the ‘purpose’ my younger self realized has been eaten away by rejection. 

I’d love to end this on an optimistic note, but pessimism and apathy are the byproducts of a traumatic and volatile arts funding environment. So I’ll end this the way my rejection letters do… I wish you all the best.