Are nonprofit arts leaders simply more susceptible to groupthink, even to their own detriment?
After years of listening to artists and watching the 120,000 nonprofit arts organizations across this country, one pattern is impossible to ignore: the loudest, wealthiest institutions — the ones that issued grand equity manifestos — are the same ones now sprinting back to business as usual. They promised transformation and delivered warmed‑over mediocrity.
“But the audiences!” they whine. “Audiences won’t buy tickets unless the work is happy, conventional, or familiar!”
Let me be clear. I have no problem with audiences using their admission dollars to sway arts organizations. It’s their prerogative, mostly because those same nonprofit arts organizations have purposely, joyfully, and with great relief, abandoned their positions as charities in order to sell stuff. Selling stuff, of course, has nothing whatsoever to do with “charitable, religious, educational, scientific, literary, testing for public safety, fostering national or international amateur sports competition, and preventing cruelty to children or animals,” which is what they signed on to do when they applied for that IRS determination letter. More importantly, it is what their communities need them to do, which is why donations are, generally speaking, only coming from the wealthy White patrons. As we’ve said in the past, the whole industry has devolved into a reality where donors are donating so that those same donors may attend (the textbook definition of elitism).
Yes, charitable organizations sell stuff. But they do it to support their mission — not to justify another glossy production.
If you buy a t-shirt from the ACLU, they defend the First Amendment. If you hate the t-shirt, they still defend the First Amendment. And if you’re donating because of the t-shirt, you’re missing the point entirely.
The penguins-on-an-iceberg photo at the top of this column is often misread by arts leaders as a symbol of organizations huddling together on a harsh cultural landscape.
Wrong.
It’s a metaphor for artists stranded on a landscape they didn’t create. Each iceberg is a nonprofit arts organization insisting on going it alone or clinging only to similar icebergs. A few penguins hoard the resources. Those are the ones that make waves. But not many. Not enough. And most penguins either starve or leave the metaphor entirely — which is a loss for everyone except the organizations that caused the problem.
Meanwhile, the field continues to gorge itself on conferences, convenings, and consulting firms that promise “innovation” but deliver the same recycled talking points. It’s a feedback loop of self-congratulation masquerading as progress.
And let’s be honest: shifting from self-serving programming to genuine community service is hard. It requires risk. It requires humility. It requires giving up the illusion that acclaim equals impact. And after so many organizations loudly proclaimed their devotion to equity — only to abandon it the moment it threatened their comfort — why would anyone believe they’re ready to change now?
These institutions cling to fame, fortune, acclaim, and high production values as if they were constitutional rights. They aren’t. They’re distractions. They turn organizations into clannish, gossipy clubs where artistic-vision aspirants compare résumés and congratulate themselves for being “leaders.”
Yes, money is necessary to make art. Artists have known that forever. I sympathize. As a recovering artist, I understand the desire to create magic — to transform ideas into something new, sometimes collaboratively, where sparks fly and new worlds emerge.
But if you’re running a nonprofit arts organization, you are not creating art. You are assembling it. You’re not building the house; you’re hiring the people who build the house. You pay artists to make art, but the art is not yours. Boards and peer institutions have convinced you that your worth is measured in finances and acclaim — and no one cares about the acclaim except you.
And for those who missed it: the headline references the TV show Pluribus, which explores the tension between collective thinking and individual dissent. Both succeed; both fail.
So ask yourself — honestly: Is your organization chasing popularity and financial security while offering only lip service to “community”? Or is it isolated, clinging to artistic vision as a shield against accountability? Both paths succeed; both paths fail. The difference is intention. And courage. And whether you actually want to serve the people you claim to serve.
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