The construction industry continues to boom, and although the price of building materials has risen steadily in recent years, it is actually difficult to find a craftsman out here on the west coast who has time to take on new tasks this side of the year. Even as an independent freelancer in the intersection between construction and creative work, I find it difficult to fill the calendar.
One thing is that you can make light partitions, change windows and doors, plaster walls, and put up Troldtekt as much as you like. Not that there is anything wrong with that kind of work. When the ambition is to be able to cultivate a market for more creative solutions, on the other hand, there is no point in spending all the working hours of the week on other people's projects, no matter how exciting and challenging they are.
I love the complete self-forgetfulness and the flow I experience when I write, paint the large pictures, or work to create a new, cool expression of reclaimed wood in the workshop—why to the greatest extent possible I just do it, regardless that it's not exactly the way to great accounting figures in my small business.
I currently follow the strategy that, as far as possible, I (only) work the minimum number of hours on client projects necessary for me to pay my bills, while I invest the rest of my time in painting pictures, writing poems, building furniture from recycled materials, writing songs and whatever other creative whims I feel called to try.
And let me just be honest: It's scary to spend so many interest hours on things that I have no idea if I can ever get to a level where they will make sense to others, not to mention may turn out to have real business potential.
We, who were brought up in the Danish combination of Protestant sense of duty and left-liberal belief in the free market, are attacked by a guilty conscience no matter what, to the extent that we are not productive in classical GNP terms.
To spend what is effectively many months of working time writing poems for example?! Not in any way a meaningful investment in terms of money—on the contrary, you could rightly call it a business kamikaze—but on the other hand, the one creative process that has given me the best return on investment when it comes to well-being, balance and quality of life.
I love the complete self-forgetfulness and the flow I experience when I write, paint the large pictures, or work to create a new, cool expression of reclaimed wood in the workshop—why to the greatest extent possible I just do it, regardless that it's not exactly the way to great accounting figures in my small business.
Could it still turn out that the countless hours of creative interest are (also) well spent in business terms? Although the reality for most aspiring artists in today's Denmark is a patchwork economy that can at best cover the running costs, of course I still live in hope. Who knows if things will suddenly turn upside down one day, and the market will demand some of my slightly more quirky and different solutions?
