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Cynthia Chu

Joana Fontinha/The Reykjavík Grapevine

Martynas Petreikis

Examining the realities of making a living as a professional artist in Iceland

Typical party conversation, any evening at random between 1997 and 2025:  

Random guest: So, what do you do for a living?  

Me: I’m a professional visual artist.  

Random guest: No, I mean, your REAL JOB?  

Me: I’m a professional visual artist. 

Random guest: But…  

Yes, I am a full time professional visual artist.  

I have loved drawing since I could hold a pencil, then I spent 15 years in formal arts education and thousands of hours of training to do it professionally. I have exhibited work in museums and galleries all around the world. I am proud of what I do, and with it I pay for my house, buy groceries and look after my child. However, throughout my career I have had to justify being an artist to anyone who felt entitled to say that it wasn’t an actual job, or even proceeded to say “Oh, I’m an artist too!” while holding up the mug they painted at a local workshop. 

So I wrote a PhD about being an artist as a proper job. That’ll do it, I thought. 

Still, the social recognition of artists as workers is a tricky conversation to have, because it is bound up with considerable stereotypes, marked by minefields. The apparent ease with which art appears to be made to the eyes of an external observer; the blurring between hobbyists and professionals in an environment where it is possible to identify oneself as an artist without much questioning; and the unique blend of puzzlement and mystery with which artists are still viewed, can all contribute to the difficulty in securing rights and a voice for those who have chosen art as a career. 

“Administrative bodies treated artists like cheap sources of labour for marketing and advancing a stereotypical image of Iceland.”

In particular, the fragmentation and controversies of the idea of artists as a profession causes tangible problems in their pursuit of a livelihood from their art. 

Social scientists have written at length about how artists tend to be undervalued, especially in smaller communities, despite the arts greatly contributing to their country’s economy. Over the past 15 years, it has been repeatedly demonstrated how the flexibility of artists in terms of labour and pay has been exploited in a situation where this adaptability becomes precarious. Stress and poor working conditions tend to become normalized, romanticized or even idealised. Yet the very idea of talking about making a living as an artist is often shunned and sometimes becomes taboo for the artists themselves. 

In Iceland, there is no question about the huge economic value that visual arts bring to the country. In 2021 alone, the operating revenues in Iceland’s cultural and creative industries reached 126 billion ISK, with visual arts contributing 3.5 billion ISK to this total.  

But what about artists, the very people who make the art? Are they valued for what they do, or are they expected to do everything they do for free, for the love of it or — that old chestnut — for “exposure”? What’s it like to be a visual artist here?  

Respected professional v. cheap labour 

In 2014, Icelandic artists and researchers Tinna Grétarsdóttir, Ásmundur Ásmundsson and Hannes Lárusson maintained that, in Iceland, post-Fordist work ethics and the instability of artists’ working conditions played a part in the silencing of labour exploitation, where administrative bodies treated artists like cheap sources of labour for marketing and advancing a stereotypical image of Iceland.  

They wrote that focusing on “the politics of the field of art as a place of work” as well as systemic exploitation and self-exploitation is essential when discussing the precarious conditions of artists, their anticipated conformity, the marginalization of critical cultural production, and what modes of subjectification arise in these times of economic uncertainty.”  

So, are artists supposed to be stereotyped people making stereotype artwork, a romantic army of geniuses in berets, all creating in wine-fueled Dionysiac bursts of inspiration and living in poverty? 

As an artist and researcher with an interest in artists’ livelihoods, I have endeavored to study the Icelandic art scene from a different perspective and explored the need for Icelandic society to value Icelandic artists as a workforce. While there have been huge, positive steps forward in the definition of Icelandic arts policy, culminating this year with the publication of the “Myndlistarstefna til ársins 2030” (Visual Arts Strategy until 2030), which outlines the key concepts and intentions of the Icelandic government in terms of culture, the recognition of professional artists in the Icelandic workforce is still blurred and undefined.  

“We need to urgently increase Icelandic society’s knowledge of the arts and it is equally urgent that society starts appreciating and acknowledging the art that is created here,” says Rúrí, one of Iceland‘s most noted artists. She represented Iceland at the Venice Biennale in 2003, created the iconic Rainbow in front of Keflavík airport and the Glassrain installation piece at the National Museum of Iceland.  

“In the same way,” she continues, “it is necessary to appreciate and recognize the value of the individuals, that is, the artists, who are behind the creation of works of art. We can all agree that the creation of great works of art requires extensive professional expertise and artistic integrity: they can only be created by artists who have dedicated themselves entirely to art as a lifelong profession.” 

Rúrí’s words should resonate with all artists. Working as an artist is not just being struck by inspiration, it involves technical processes, management, organisation, dissemination, plus all the other things that a sole trader does: dealing with taxes, expenses, clients, supplies, workplace. One must allow time for work to take shape, while managing all the other aspects of what they do and actively interacting with the art world and the public.  

Being an artist is not a weekend or hobby activity. It occupies one’s life, like any profession does for those who do it seriously.  

Making conceptual or tangible art, coming from formal education or being self-taught, these are all valid ways of making art and being an artist. But what is clear from Rúrí‘s words is that making impactful, world-class art takes time. A lack of time available to work as an artist forces them to reduce their expectations, their ideas and sometimes give up on their work altogether. Considering the measured benefits of the arts on Iceland, this would be a serious cultural and economic loss for the nation. 

In a privileged position 

Anna Eyjólfsdóttir, president of The Association of Icelandic Artists (SÍM) notes that one of the main goals of the newly created Visual Arts Strategy is to establish Icelandic visual arts as a visible and growing industry. When talking about visual arts as an industry, the issue is complicated considerably by the fact that there exists no legal protection for the professional title of visual artist in Iceland. Therefore anyone can call themselves an artist, even if the person in question lacks most or all of the professional prerequisites to be entitled to it. Obviously, this makes it difficult for visual artists to defend their rights. 

“It is not clear how the visual art industry can grow unless these rights are guaranteed,” Anna says. “It is worrying that we are producing new art graduates every year, who have little support after college,” Anna says. “There are currently no subsidies to help artists pay studio rent, despite the precarity of their earnings. The feeling I have is that the perceived value of artists as workers is quite low.” 

Anna’s feeling is that very few artists survive without other types of jobs, as there are not enough public commissions for artists, no pension or long term provision. This also means that, if an income is not possible, the only artists who will be able to afford to work will be those from a privileged background, further reducing the diversity of voices in the visual arts. If being an artist is not taken seriously as an occupation, no Icelandic artist will be able to do what they do full time.  

Space to create 

“Artists need space, time and funding in order to make art,” says Jóna Hlíf Halldórsdottir, president of BÍL, The Icelandic Federation of Artists. “This has to be talked about more at government level in Iceland, especially since the rise in property costs and the trend to give more space to hotels, restaurants and other tourist related properties.” 

Jóna notes that a significant portion of artists’ salaries is going mainly into studio costs, which she calls “a worrying and unsustainable trend.”  

SÍM currently has 250 studios across 10 different buildings, rented from Reykjavik Council, the government and private individuals. Yet this is not enough, as there are over 1.000 members who often have no access to proper working facilities. 

“When we manage to rent a studio, we are so happy to have a studio at all, that we don’t pay attention to its quality,” she explains. “Mould, poor ventilation, bad heating, difficult locations, all contribute to poor working conditions, which affect artists’ ability to make work. Moreover, since in Iceland there are no buildings designated for long-term occupancy by creative people, the constant threat of having to move studios every other year affects the way artists live and work.” 

She believes artists need to be louder and unafraid to talk about money, so that art can be part of the larger discussion about policy change at a government level.  

“The Icelandic government has listened to BÍL in the past,” she says, “but action is slow compared to the radical change needed.” 

Iceland is not an island 

This systemic issue is not unique to Iceland. The argument of detaching the art profession from the implication of payment is the product of 18th-century ideas formulated during Illuminism in order to establish the very idea of artists as worthy of recognition as intellectuals. 

“Culture cannot be an afterthought in the eyes of the government, or the first thing to cut on public budgets.”

Yet this has fuelled the thought in some people that making a living from art should not even be contemplated, making it possible to exploit artists’ labour in many ways. The exploitation of creative labour is a well-documented, worldwide issue. While the glamourisation of poverty reinforces the stereotype of the misunderstood, romantic genius living in squalor, the reality is that most of us just want to be allowed the dignity of being respected as part of society.   

Professional organisations like SÍM, BÍL and others help artists maintain a sense of professionalism and solidarity in a rapidly changing landscape. They act as advocates for fair pay, better working conditions, and institutional support. Such organisations offer artists the tools to assert their legitimacy while recognizing that in the 21st century, many artists engage in a variety of arts practices beyond traditional definitions of “fine art”.

There is also a deep systemic issue at play: if government funding for artists is low, it creates division and inequality within the arts system itself. There are known issues of inequality in the arts in Iceland, which have been highlighted in the past few years by numerous publications, events and podcasts, including in the pages of The Grapevine. Artist-led initiatives such as Gallery Kannski, who wrote an Open Letter on Artist Salaries in December 2024, gathered data that suggests there’s an underrepresentation of gender, ethnic and other minorities in the public funding mechanism for the arts.  

Others, like the Artist in Iceland Visa Action Group (AIVAG), an advocacy group working towards greater accessibility for foreign artists in Iceland, highlighted the “precarity of being an artist of foreign origin in Iceland” and addresses issues like artist visas, labour rights, systemic racism and migration processes.  

Individual artists have written about similar sentiments about class, nepotism and discrimination in the local art scene, discussing artistic projects that bring to light the experiences of migrant workers in Iceland, suggesting that their stories and perspectives are often marginalized in mainstream cultural discourse. 

“Iceland is becoming a multicultural society – this is not my opinion; it is a fact,” says Ingunn Fjóla Ingþórsdóttir, an artist, and the curator and founder of non-profit social multiculturality organization GETA.  

Joana Fontinha/The Reykjavík Grapevine

Joana Fontinha/The Reykjavík Grapevine

The number of immigrants in Iceland has increased rapidly over the past two decades. In 2024, the total number of first- and second-generation immigrants made up 20.1% of the population — the highest proportion ever recorded.  

“We are living in times of change, both globally and locally,” she says, “where migration for various reasons is on the rise. At the moment, there is no indication that this trend will reverse, making it more likely than not that the number of immigrants in Iceland will continue to grow in the future.” 

While there has been an increase in the participation of immigrants in the Icelandic art scene, Ingunn Fjóla notes that it is far from keeping pace with immigration figures. 

“Immigrant artists appear to face significant, often invisible, barriers that limit their participation and recognition, leading to an art scene that is perceived as homogeneous and not fully inclusive of the diverse artistic talent present in the country.”

“Iceland is a small society, and as a result, the Icelandic art scene is limited and sometimes too homogeneous,” she says. “Many artists of foreign origin have expressed that they find it difficult to break into the Icelandic art scene. They participate in social activities, attend exhibition openings, and have friends in the art sector — yet, for some reason, they are invited to exhibit in Iceland far less frequently than their Icelandic colleagues.” 

She continues: “Perhaps the metaphor of the glass ceiling, often used to represent an invisible barrier preventing a certain group from rising beyond a certain level in a hierarchy, is relevant here. It seems that there is a glass ceiling for immigrants in the Icelandic art scene.” 

There has been a surge of articles talking about nepotism, racism and discrimination in the Icelandic art scene. This mirrors similar trends in the arts scenes throughout Europe, highlighted by numerous international studies whose citations could occupy the entire word count of this article. As public funding for the arts is not commensurate with the value artists should have in Icelandic society, discrimination and precariousness in the national art scene have become part of a larger systemic problem of being a professional artist here. Is there something that can be done about this? 

“To build a positive multicultural society, we need to implement a shift in mindset across all sectors, from preschools to nursing homes,” says Ingunn Fjóla. “We need a campaign to eliminate prejudice and hatred towards people of foreign origin. The question we need to ask ourselves is not whether we want to be a multicultural society, but what kind of multicultural society we want to be. Do we want to live in a positive and inclusive multicultural society, or in a society marked by social stratification, hatred and division?” 

Despite Iceland becoming increasingly multicultural, Ingunn Fjóla explains that the Icelandic art scene is lagging behind in reflecting this demographic shift. Immigrant artists appear to face significant, often invisible, barriers that limit their participation and recognition, leading to an art scene that is perceived as homogeneous and not fully inclusive of the diverse artistic talent present in the country. This situation suggests a need for systemic changes and a conscious effort to dismantle the “glass ceiling” to foster a more representative and vibrant Icelandic art scene.

It is not clear how the visual art industry can grow unless rights are guaranteed.

The wider economic situation in the Icelandic arts ecosystem and lack of significant funding to cover basic expenses for professional artists means that, in a climate of uncertainty, many artists of both Icelandic and foreign origin I spoke to did not want to be named, confessing their fear of ruffling feathers and being out of favour with possible funders.  

This in itself was emblematic of the problematic, delicate nature of the Icelandic arts system. 

Investing in the future 

Public investment in the arts can stabilize artists’ careers and create a more equitable arts infrastructure, to help alleviate the economic and social inequalities that artists face, ensuring that art is accessible to all, not just the privileged few. 

The professionalisation of artists in Iceland involves more than just the creation of a formal structure. It requires an ongoing cultural shift that recognises the economic, social and ethical contributions that artists make to society.  

Culture cannot be an afterthought in the eyes of the government, or the first thing to cut on public budgets. Art is a force for understanding and questioning the world around us, a peaceful and constructive alternative to conflict. And artists need to be valued for the meaningful contribution they bring into the world. While the status of the artist may have changed over the centuries, it remains an evolving profession — one that requires both critical engagement and institutional support to ensure that its value is upheld in contemporary culture.