In August 2022, after two years of pandemic shutdowns, the arts sector in Ireland was on its knees. It hadn’t been doing too well before Covid-19, but in the face of a global virus, it all but evaporated. Government restrictions forced cinemas, theatres, performance venues, galleries and any arts-related spaces to shut down. Tens of thousands of people lost their jobs, myself included. In an already struggling sector, it was the death knell for the careers of many artists and arts workers.
After tireless work by the National Campaign for the Arts and Theatre Forum, former minister for arts Catherine Martin announced the introduction of a Basic Income for the Arts (BIA) scheme. This was to be a three-year research project, funded by the EU, funnelled through the Irish government. It would cost between €150,000-€200,000. Out of 8,000 eligible applicants, 2,000 were selected in an anonymised and randomised process. I was one of those 2,000 people.
The BIA was an intervention to try to save a sinking ship. The severe impact of the pandemic on artists and arts workers was preceded by years of financial cuts and dwindling budgets. The sector had suffered massive cuts during the 2008 recession, and funding never made its way back up to pre-recession levels. In short, being an artist in Ireland has meant living precariously, frequently working for below minimum wage, and often working for free.
Let’s take a deep breath together and move in time to the fateful moment that was 2020. It’s impossible for me to see this number without feeling a shudder down my spine. And yet, before it became that unforgettable year in history, for me it was one of great hope and excitement. 2020 was going to be my year. I had worked very hard for more than 20 years to build the momentum I was finally reaping. After decades of failures, successes, more failures, rejections, heartaches, near misses and almost-theres, I was staring down the barrel of a good year. No, a great year. Following a critically acclaimed, sold-out run in 2019, a play I’d written, This Beautiful Village, was going back into the Abbey Theatre for production on the main stage for one month. After that, there would be a national tour. I got a publishing deal, I signed with a new agent at a big agency in London, and This Beautiful Village won Best New Play at the Irish Theatre Awards. This glorious moment had been a long time coming for me. And then, in a heartbeat, it all disappeared … poof … into thin air.
At the time, people were at pains to assure me that my show would come back once restrictions were lifted, that all would be righted. None of these people worked in the arts or entertainment. They did not understand that in this business, when you lose your slot, it’s gone. As the pandemic raged on, the Abbey changed leadership, and I was not part of their new agenda. This is how it goes in showbiz.
I spent a long, long time grieving this loss. And while I was not alone – many of my peers had also lost their work – it was an intensely lonely and solitary grief. I was the only person in my family who lost everything overnight. It was also an ambiguous loss. I couldn’t point to something tangible and feel its absence, because it didn’t happened. It was a “supposed to be”, sliding doors moment in my life. How can you miss something you never actually had?
I sank into a deep depression. I felt broken. And to top it all off, I was sick. The week of the very first shutdown, I had surgery and was diagnosed with endometriosis. In addition to grief and loss, I was in constant, severe pain. My livelihood was gone, along with my identity, my sense of self. And I got completely and utterly lost in it all.
I spent two years battling with my grief, and fighting for healthcare to treat my illness. I wasn’t doing well with either. I’d heard rumours that a Basic Income for the Arts scheme was coming down the line but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. When an official announcement arrived, and applications opened, I put my name forward, knowing full well that my chances were slim. A lot of arts sector workers were in a bad way, and I was by no means the worst. I was able to rent a home near my daughter’s school, and was able to put food on the table. Not everybody had it that good.
When I received word I’d been selected, a light went on inside me. The money would be a huge boost, of course, but also, I felt seen. I felt valued. As a writer, as an artist, that’s not something you feel very often. Artists expend so much energy fighting for their worth to be adequately compensated that it’s very easy to lose your sense of self-worth and belief. These are not flowery words, or luxury feelings, they are fundamental to the health and wellbeing of every human being.
When someone shows you that they believe in you, as the BIA did for me, it shifts you on your axis. In a society that devalues artists, yet consumes art every single day, a sliver of belief can make a seismic shift in the person who creates that art. It turns out that €325 a week can not only help with groceries and doctors’ bills, it also makes you feel like you’re worth something. That the creativity you contribute to the world is, in fact, meaningful.
That first BIA payment I received came at a very dark time in my life. It was a ray of light, a beacon of hope that maybe, maybe, I’d be able to keep writing. Qualified to do exactly zero else, the only path for me was forward. There was guilt, of course. Selection had been randomised but, as I’ve said, there had been 8,000 applications. Only 2,000 were selected. I carried a sense of shame, that there were others more deserving than me. And nobody, nobody, who was selected talked about it. It was an unspoken agreement. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s how dire things have gotten for artists in Ireland.
Every month, a payment would go straight into my bank account. In the three years I’ve been part of this scheme, I’ve never once taken that money for granted. In tough times, when doctors’ bills skyrocketed, those payments took the edge off a sharp knife. They gave me breathing space to try to navigate writing while sick and in pain during a pandemic. Even as the dreaded restrictions began to lift, and we put distance between ourselves and the darkest days of the pandemic, that €325 continued to help with medical bills. It bought me time and space to process total career loss, chronic illness and allowed me to wedge the door open to keep writing, in whatever way I could.
Every six months, there was a survey. It asked questions about my life demographics, things you would expect to answer: age, living situation, employment status, a lot of standard queries about where I was at. What I did not expect were the questions about my mental health and wellbeing. In a gentle, respectful way, it made me reflect on how I was really doing. There were the questions about care and household responsibilities. My answers to those blew my mind. It was galling to realise how much time I was spending on running a household and it was news to me to discover that with the hours I was putting in, I was, in fact, a stay-at-home mother. The purpose of the survey was to gather information, but what it did was wake me up to the domestic inequity in my household, and take a good hard look at how I was spending my time.
“How much time did you spend on leisure activities this month?” On at least three of the surveys, my answer was zero. Had it not been for this research element of the project, I’m not sure I would have ever realised this. Writing another zero next to a question about how much money I’d made from my specific art form (playwriting) forced me to have some very difficult conversations with myself.
Most artists in Ireland cannot make a living from making art alone. They have to subsidise their income with jobs in other sectors, or if they’re lucky, in an arts-related role. In 2024, an estimated 6.6 million tourists visited our island. They didn’t all come for the Guinness. And they certainly didn’t come for the weather. Our scenery is gorgeous, yes, even in the rain, but what really draws people to Ireland is our culture. Our music, our writers, our art, our theatre, our festivals, these are what make Ireland such a popular place to visit. And when they do, they spend money. Lots of it. So why are the folks that make that culture living on the breadline?
The economics of culture are simple: if you build it, they will come. In their droves. They’ll spend money in pubs, hotels, galleries, theatres, shops, landmarks and museums. They’ll buy books and woolly hats and green hoodies and shillelaghs and Claddagh rings and records and brown bread. They’ll splash the cash to immerse themselves in the full experience of the immense culture of Ireland. But culture doesn’t build itself. It requires time, talent and dedication. And the people who make that culture can’t do it if they can’t make the rent, or they can’t afford to take their sick kid to the doctor, or they can’t afford a space or studio.
The poetry that politicians love to quote to humanise themselves doesn’t magic up out of nowhere. The TV shows you can’t stop binge-watching don’t make themselves. The books you read were not written by an AI bot. Someone, an artist, had to sit down at a desk, likely for years, and grind that sucker out. For a pittance. The music you love to listen to started in an artist’s head and made its way out on to an instrument. That instrument costs money. The recording equipment and studio space cost more. Like it or not, art needs money, because the people who make it are human beings who need the same things as you: shelter, food and water, yes. But they also need to be valued enough to invest in.
[ The Irish Times view on basic income for artists: keep it goingOpens in new window ]
The Basic Income for the Arts scheme was due to end in August but it has been extended until February 2026. Minister for Culture, Communications and Sport, Patrick O’Donovan TD, plans to bring proposals for a “successor scheme” to Cabinet as part of Budget 2026.
Economically, the return on a BIA scheme will pay huge dividends in the form of more art, which will grow the tourism industry which will grow the hospitality, service, and retail industries. As an investment, it’s a no brainer. And those are pretty thin on the ground these days.
Lisa Tierney-Keogh is a playwright and writer lisatierneykeogh.substack.com
