Аманда Палмер - The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

Slow down for cry-eye, Rocket Girl. Jesus . He leaned over and picked up his cane, examining its glass knob for damage. One thing at a time, you. Now, you getting coffee? I already got something , he said, pointing to his pot of green tea and fishing his plastic Peet’s card out of his bag. He still loved paying for me.

I checked the Kickstarter from my phone while I was standing in line for my coffee. It was a thousand dollars short of a million. I refreshed. Eight hundred dollars short. I checked my Twitter feed. People were getting excited. It was going to hit. I ordered an espresso, and a scone for Anthony. He waved his coffee card at me and started to get up to try to pay for us, and I shooed him away, paying in cash, refreshing my phone again, bursting with excitement. I headed back to the table.

Listen , I said, I know I’ve been explaining this whole Kickstarter thing to you, and I know you don’t totally get it—

I get it , he said.

Well, I know you get it, but it’s about to hit a million dollars in backing, and it’s the first time anything like this has ever happened in the music business, so it’s kind of a big deal. Not just to me, but it means crowdfunding is working, it means you can put out a record like this and not have to have a label and stuff. It’s, like, news. You know what I mean .

Anthony listened.

When it happens… it’s going to be an exact MOMENT, you know, an important one, and it’s going to be happening ANY second now… and I don’t want to be an asshole sitting here on my phone, but there’s a picture I want to upload. I need to acknowledge it. You know?

He said nothing and buttered his scone.

I glared at him.

Don’t get pissed at me. I’m just SAYING , I said. I just need to do a thing .

He leaned back in his chair, and raised his eyebrows.

Do whatever you gotta do, doll .

I refreshed the Kickstarter page. It was still eight hundred dollars away.

Well… it’ll take a second. No biggie. So. Anyway. How are you?

He didn’t say anything for a second, as if he didn’t trust me to pay attention to the answer, then he settled in and shrugged his shoulders.

I hate the steroids. I’ve got a crushing headache. And I hate this stick , he said, gesturing at the cane. I fucking bumped right into a lady with a stroller on the way in here. She came up along my right side, which is the side I’m not seeing well out of, and she—

My phone buzzed. I glanced down at it. It was my manager Eric, sending a group text to me and the rest of the team, saying, ABOUT TO HIT 1 MILLION, READY FOR THIS FUCKING MADNESS?

Anthony cocked his eyebrows at me.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I got a text. It’s the Kickstarter thing. Sorry. Keep going .

My phone vibrated again. I glanced down. It was Hayley responding to the text saying we were almost there.

Listen , said Anthony, leaning back. Do your thing . This was code for: Don’t half pay attention to me, you clown . He wasn’t angry. He was just slightly annoyed and amused.

Then the text came from Eric: WE DID IT. HUZZZZAHHH. $1 MILLION. YAY TEAM!

I texted back gleeful congratulations, posted Lee’s painted-tummy photo to my Twitter feed, and said,

Okay, okay. It’s over. It’s done. My Kickstarter just hit a million dollars. I uploaded a naked photo. I’m all yours .

I settled into my chair and took a sip of my coffee, feeling like the queen of the universe. Now, finally, I could focus on my sick friend.

Anthony just looked at me.

Then he picked up his phone and started to fiddle with it, ignoring me.

I sat waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing, wondering if he was going to torture me for this entire day because I’d been such a distracted asshole.

My phone buzzed with a text.

It was from Anthony. I looked at him. He ignored me.

I read the text. It said:

If you love people enough, they’ll give you everything.

One of my favorite yoga teachers once told a story during class.

Since ever, in China, bamboo farmers have planted baby bamboo shoots deep into the ground. And then, for three years, nothing happens. But the farmers will work, diligently watering the shoot, spreading hay and manure, waiting patiently, even though nothing is sprouting up. They simply have faith. And then, one day, the bamboo will shoot up and grow up to thirty feet in a month. It just blasts into the sky.

Any small, sustainable artist-fan community works like this. Crowdfunding works like this.

There’s years and years of authentic work, tons of nonmonetary exchanges, massive net-tightening, an endless collection of important moments. Good art is made, good art is shared, help is offered, ears are bent, emotions are exchanged, the compost of real, deep connection is sprayed all over the fields.

Then, one day, the artist steps up and asks for something.

And if the ground has been fertilized enough, the audience says, without hesitation:

Of course .

But it isn’t magic. That first part can take years. Decades.

A lot of misunderstanding about crowdfunding stems from missing this point: if somebody hasn’t been watching you farm, suddenly sees the fruits of the labor, and thinks that maybe it all happened by magic, it can be painful. I got a lot of that after my Kickstarter launched: