Another One Bites the Bust. But only one got paid for the encore.
OVERTURE: Two Geniuses. Two Economies. Two Legacies. One Systemic Blind Spot.
We all know Franz Peter Schubert was prolific and very underappreciated in his time. A creative force who catalyzed Lieder (German Art Song) as a serious genre of music—while his material life remained a masterclass in precarity. He died at 31, likely from syphilis, while living in his brother’s apartment. His genius, while unquestioned, was largely unrecognized until after his death. Naturally, his story has become a staple of musicological reverence—and an unspoken syllabus in artistic suffering.
And then there’s Gioachino Rossini. Another child prodigy turned beloved opera composer. Retired at 37 with negotiated royalties, a state annuity, and four decades of well-fed, well-funded creative autonomy. His work was commercially successful during his lifetime. He wrote for audiences, enjoyed himself, and, even though he didn’t please all the “high art” purists—Wagner called him a "lightweight”—he managed to not perish in obscurity or financial ruin.
Rossini also returned the favor:
“Wagner has some wonderful moments… but awful quarter hours.”
Now, if you were to review most music school curricula
—or at least survey those who remember their music history classes— it wouldn’t be too hard to infer whose “financial plan” is more likely to be remembered.
(Go ahead. Guess.)
And just to be clear: I’m not saying this is literally written in any syllabus. It’s not about actual repertoire counts or bibliometric data. But the mere fact that I can even suggest this might be part of the hidden curriculum? That’s proof enough that it shows up in plenty of spaces.
Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
The quiet signals. The ambient suspicion. The way reverence gathers around collapse, while ease is treated as a fluke—or a moral compromise.
Just suggesting that an artist who became wealthy might hold comparable artistic weight is enough to trigger discomfort.
And that discomfort? It is the data.
It reveals a deeper operating system—one that quietly frames artistic legitimacy around collapse, while casting sustainability as suspect, unserious, or “too capitalist.”
So here’s a fair question:
How much unprocessed economic grief gets passed down to students as if it’s pedagogy?
Because the current economic realities for too many musicians and artists are, in part, a result of an educational system that has stayed too detached from the real-world conditions students are actually graduating into.
This isn’t about assigning blame though—after all, I’m living proof that a private liberal arts education can offer immense, lifelong value. But in a world where that value is constantly sidelined by the economics of instant gratification, we need to prepare the next generation of artists to thrive immediately anyway—or accept the ongoing cost of pretending that prestige alone will protect them.
SCENA: The Curriculum We Inherit—and the One We Actually Need
A common lied in music history survey classes—and a perfect metaphor for the music major experience—is Schubert’s Der Lindenbaum. The tree becomes the collegiate campus. The pull toward rest becomes the unspoken lure of dropout or burnout.
The richness in even Schubert’s simplest Lieder is one reason he’s often taught with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints and martyrs—endlessly generative despite economic and physical decline. The message isn’t always spoken aloud, but it’s there:
If you’re struggling, you must be sincere. If you’re thriving, you’re probably too commercial.
Meanwhile, Rossini wrote 39 operas by the time he stepped away from the industry at 37. He negotiated his compensation. He leveraged state patronage. He created intellectual property with long-tail value. And—a scandal of scandals—he maintained his creative autonomy for the rest of his life.
But that narrative? Rarely taught as aspirational. Unless you had a paper to write specifically about Rossini, that aspect of the composer’s life is treated like a footnote—if it’s even acknowledged at all. At best, it’s indulgent. At worst, irrelevant.
This is not an academic oversight. It’s ideological architecture.
And the consequences go far beyond storytelling preferences. Because if the only artists we routinely celebrate are the ones who die poor, misunderstood, and often unpublished, we are subconsciously teaching a dangerous lesson:
That suffering is the ultimate proof of artistic legitimacy.
And that message too often remains embedded in every rehearsal room and degree plan. Especially the ones that say they’re preparing students for “the real world.”
Because, how else can we explain why there are so many brilliant, highly-educated artists who just can’t seem to do well for themselves financially if they didn’t get the right “day job,” spouse, or inheritance?
It just goes to show that when you train collapse, you end up paying for it elsewhere.
Most can’t even get a barber job— No matter how well they sing “Largo al factotum.”
A man, a financial plan… a composing pal, Syphillis. (Not a palindrome. On purpose. Because not every great composer gets to come back full circle. Just ask Schubert.)
CAVATINA: Winterreise vs. The Barber of Seville
Let’s take a look at two masterpieces we canonize—one exalted for its suffering, the other often overlooked for its joy.
Schubert’s Winterreise—a 24-song cycle of psychological depth and emotional devastation—is rightly revered. Written in the final months of his life, it channels illness, isolation, and existential despair into structural brilliance. Schubert was functionally invisible to the world that would later call him genius. His syphillis became our syllabus.
Rossini’s The Barber of Seville? Also brilliant in craft. Hugely successful in its time. Overflowing with technical virtuosity, character wit, and popular appeal. It still packs opera houses around the world—and would pack even more if opera companies stopped operating like a national gig economy and gave their communities something to believe in (Stay tuned for more in my upcoming piece, “Uber for Arias: How Opera’s Labor Model Became a Rotating Gig Economy”).
But because Barber is a comic opera… because it was commissioned… and because Rossini didn’t collapse under its weight… it’s less likely to appear in the “serious” canon or in serious scholarly conversations—and I don’t necessarily mean this literally, but sentimentally. Because somewhere along the way, academia decided that prosperity lacks depth and that collapse reveals truth.
One piece is a monument to longing. The other is a masterclass in sustainable artistry. Both are masterpieces. But only one fits the archetype we’ve been taught to revere.
And that discrepancy? It’s not about aesthetics. It’s not about taste. It’s cultural.
And it’s time we start asking:
How is this bias serving our students and alumni?
Who gets lost when we teach the artist who died more than the one who prospered?
CANTABILE: What This Is Still Teaching Students—Often on a Subconscious Level
Here’s what’s been happening in too many conservatories and music departments across the country (and equivalent versions have been happening in theatre, visual arts, and humanities departments):
Students are graduating with degrees and debt, but without sustainable income strategies—unless you count “hoping for the best” on the “day job” market.
They’re encouraged to perform vulnerability but discouraged from protecting their value.
They’re taught to perfect their craft, but not to price it.
Making a teacher proud or proving someone wrong too often becomes more important than monetary remuneration. (I’m speaking from experience here!)
And when they do try to monetize their craft, they’re accused of “selling out,” being “too capitalist,” or being just plain old “greedy.”
I once suggested that students use Substack or Patreon to build an audience so they can start to earn already with their studio or recital repertoire. A tenured professor replied, “That would ruin the purpose of education.”
And there it is… The real curriculum. Not the one printed in the catalog— the one embedded in academic culture.
In that moment, the institution wasn’t just discouraging entrepreneurship. It was reinforcing a more powerful narrative that goes far beyond the arts: that integrity and income are incompatible. Yet it’s most acute in the arts:
That if you need money, you must not be good enough.
That if you have to promote your music, it must not be good—because it should promote itself.
That students aren’t mature enough to self-promote or ask for money—(but they’re mature enough to sign for the student loans!)
That if you plan to survive, you probably didn’t suffer correctly.
And if this assessment feels cruel, enjoy this clip of the late great Marilyn Horne singing “Cruda Sorte” from L’Italiana in Algeri: (Because “cruel fate” counts most in Italian with coloratura!)
In Rossini, the woman seizes control. In Schubert, she pleads for mercy. Guess which one we’re more likely to be taught to take more seriously…
So without further ado, let’s contrast that with the late, great Jessye Norman singing Schubert’s Der Tod und das Mädchen:
TEMPO DI MEZZO: What the Modern Great Thinkers Would Say About All This
Let’s turn to a few modern thinkers—economic, spiritual, and artistic—whose frameworks shape the structural lens I bring to this work. These aren’t just quotes. They’re design principles.
“Show me the incentive, and I’ll show you the outcome.”
Music schools still reward performative collapse. So we shouldn’t be surprised when students contort themselves to fit it. The incentives favor burnout over sustainability—and that’s not a character flaw in students. It’s a design flaw in the system.
Jack Bogle, founder of Vanguard and inventor of index investing:
“The true investor… will do better if he forgets about the stock market and pays attention to his own savings and investment program.”
He rejected hype in favor of longterm, compounding returns. Rossini’s financial model was like an artistic equivalent: consistent output, contractual clarity, and royalties that paid out long after he stopped creating. He didn’t chase volatility. He built something that held—even when he stepped away.
“You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.”
But we still train artists to shrink, suffer, and seek approval from institutions that no longer employ them. We don’t just romanticize collapse—we ritualize it. And then we wonder why burnout looks noble while solvency still feels suspect.
To those three pillars of economic integrity, we can also add:
Stephen Sondheim, who wrote:
“Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos.”
But instead of teaching artists how to build that order structurally, most schools teach them to tolerate chaos—to normalize financial confusion, emotional instability, and professional precarity as markers of devotion. We canonize the struggle. We never teach how to hold the structure that prevents it.
And finally—Taylor Swift, one of the most structurally intelligent artists working today.
She knew exactly what she was doing when she re-recorded her masters—and later paid in full for the originals. It wasn’t just a nostalgia play. It was a business move grounded in ownership, leverage, and narrative control. She turned a contract dispute into a revenue engine that honored her past without handing it to people who didn’t earn it.
That’s the difference between waiting for someone else to assign you value—and architecting a structure that holds it on your own terms.
So if you’re still holding on to the idea that “just believe in yourself” is enough, ask instead:
Where is the structure that holds that belief?
Where is the clarity behind that confidence?
Where is the ownership model that lets you keep the masters of your own work?
Artists aren’t struggling because they lack mindset or faith.
They’re struggling because no one has been showing them how to build something that actually holds the value they already have.
Everything we say to students—whether explicitly or not—becomes part of what they learn. Like cats, they’re often paying more attention than we realize—even if it only shows up when they’re singing Rossini’s “Cat Duet.”
Academic culture teaches just as much through tone, policy, and omission as it does through what’s written in the syllabus or spoken in the lecture hall.
So if we’re serious about preparing students for the 21st-century creative economy, we must:
Normalize financial clarity as a part of artistic mastery
Show students how to earn—without waiting for permission
Redefine entrepreneurship as artistic sovereignty, not just an optional elective
Expect faculty, staff and stakeholders to model congruent business practices from the admissions process through the the conferred degree and beyond.
Teach contract negotiation—and renegotiation—not just scripts and diction
Replace the “Get a real job!” with “Build a real system!”
Equip students to spot exploitation and extraction early—and make it OK to leave it. (No more “make my teacher proud” or “prove them wrong” for peanuts.)
And most of all:
We must stop subconsciously teaching collapse as the cost of credibility.
Rossini didn’t collapse. He left the room—and ran with the check.
PRESTO: This Is About System Design—Not Sentiment
We’re not failing artists because they didn’t learn to file taxes. We’re not failing artists because they didn’t learn financial literacy. We’re not failing artists because they didn’t learn how to format their CV/resume.
We’re failing them because they’ve been taught—implicitly and repeatedly—that dignity is disqualifying and sustainability is suspect.
From convocation speeches to guest artist panels... From the repertoire we canonize to the figures we exalt... From the tone we use when someone dares to be known for actually earning...
We’re reinforcing a hierarchy that doesn’t hold up in the real world.
We’re still training for a horse race that ended circa 1995.
And if we want students to win, we need to stop handing them broken reins and outdated maps of racetracks that no longer exist.
We don’t need another class. We need a recalibrated structure. A new race. A different game.
Because it’s not just about who we teach. It’s about what we reward. What we ignore. And what we subtly imply about whose art deserves to last.
Rossini isn’t the outlier. He’s the early adopter.
And if you’re ready to build a business or a culture that reflects that— I’d love to help.
Rossini once instructed violinists to stop playing… and start tapping. He didn’t just write within the system—he reprogrammed it. Even the overture breaks the rules.
📋 How to Spot Collapse Ideology in Your Curriculum—And Replace or Teach It with Structural Integrity
If you’ve made it this far because something in the Schubert vs. Rossini piece struck a nerve—good!
I’m not out to get anyone. I just want to give voice to those who don’t have one—and create the permission structure to make things better for all.
Because this wasn’t just a story about two composers. It was a diagnostic spotlight on how deeply the “starving artist” archetype is embedded in our culture, our economy, and our educational systems.
So without getting too political or too wonky, if we’re serious about preparing artists for the modern world, the next logical question is:
What can I do about it?
This addendum is for educators, program directors, and even students who want to start detoxing their syllabi—and re-centering sustainability, clarity, and self-worth in the process. (Regardless of politics. Regardless of anyone’s “grooming” agenda!)
10 Questions for a Curriculum Economic Integrity Check
Use these 10 questions to audit your syllabi, studio policies, curriculum, or institutional messaging. One “yes” = one red flag.
Give yourself a red flag just for reaching this point—something in your gut knows something’s off, or you’d have clicked away by now.
The more red flags you uncover, the more collapse ideology may be embedded in your program than you realize.
1. Do your syllabi (plus the overall institutional programming—concerts, convocations, etc.) feature more examples of tragic or substandard biographies than successful or sustainable careers?
If your assigned readings and concert themes celebrate brilliance but almost never mention business models or income streams, ask why. If your concert repertoire programming is predominantly centered around composers or historical figures who were impoverished vs. those who were able to earn a decent living, ask why. This is not about right or wrong; it’s about awareness—and even subconscious narratives still become narratives.
2. Are students ever explicitly taught how composers, performers or other key role models actually earned in their lifetime?
Schubert’s Lieder are canon. But do students know Rossini retired on royalties? Are we just implicitly expected to get a “day job” selling insurance like Charles Ives? Income isn’t anti-art. It’s part of the legacy.
3. Do you ever use phrases like “selling out” or “evil capitalism” to describe an artist’s commercial success?
If so, you may be reinforcing shame around sustainability. Without getting too political, it’s fair to point out that much of the typical anti-capitalism rhetoric is not as informed as it could be. Most students won’t get a salary with tenure—they need to be mentally prepared for the actual economy they are heading into.
One reason I created my Five Standards of Economic Integrity is to offer a starting point for what a healthy economic dialogue could look like—and a values-based framework that people across political lines can agree on, unless they’re committed to extraction as a model. Because full integrity isn’t just more ethical—it’s actually more profitable long-term, and it’s the most sustainable path to financial freedom for the head and heart.
4. Are business or career courses treated as electives, positioned as remedial, or are they non-existent?
Optionality signals priority. If you say it’s not core, they just may believe you.
But here’s the deeper question: are the courses offered truly designed for the careers your students are actually pursuing? Too often, Business School curricula cater to traditional corporate paths—not creative, independent, and emotionally intelligent entrepreneurial work. Many still teach models that prize scale over sustainability, visibility over viability, and conformity over personal integrity.
5. Do faculty feel equipped—or permitted—to model entrepreneurship themselves?
If professors are surviving in secret, students internalize fear by default. And many institutions still enforce outdated “no moonlighting” types of rules that prevent faculty from modeling the very kind of entrepreneurship students are encouraged—at least in theory—to pursue. These policies need to evolve—not just to reflect economic reality, but to allow faculty to lead by example.
And even when courses do exist, no classroom—no matter how well-designed—can teach everything entrepreneurship requires. It’s situational, behavioral, and real-time. That’s why every student hoping to succeed entrepreneurially will eventually need qualified mentors who are actively in business upon graduating. This kind of guidance is just as vital as ongoing private applied lessons.
6. Are students ever discouraged from monetizing their recitals, content, or audience?
That’s a structural boundary masquerading as tradition. And it’s costing them real entrepreneurial growth. We can’t be recruiting students promising career preparation and then discouraging the very things they will have to do to sustain their career.
7. Is suffering subtly rewarded in how students are praised or remembered?
Think about who gets the “grind” badge of honor—and who gets quietly dismissed for having boundaries. Remember perfect attendance often doesn’t equal perfect physical, mental, spiritual, or financial health. Training students to mindlessly show up for every rehearsal early—even when not called—doesn’t prepare them appropriately for when the gigs with those same expectations never pay enough.
8. Are you inviting guest artists and speakers who can speak to economic congruence—not just accolades?
A famous name is great. But can they model a sustainable income or a sustainable business practice? Can they talk about how they earn? And are they earning with integrity? Or are they really not making much directly from their craft?—and an unrelated job, an inheritance, or a spouse is really paying their bills? This is not about making anyone wrong, but transparency matters here.
9. Do students graduate with any plan—beyond “keep going”?
Even a basic framework for audience-building, income mapping, or negotiating is more useful than a vague call to “persevere” and “never give up.”
10. Have you ever discussed how systemic bias affects whose collapse becomes romanticized—and whose goes unnoticed?
If not, your curriculum might be centering collapse as a form of privileged exceptionalism—while ignoring others entirely.
What to Include Instead
Here’s how to begin shifting the foundation—without needing a whole new program:
Speak about money directly in your lectures and lesson plans. Don’t just say “grant”—say “negotiated fees.”
Honor sustainability as a skill, not sacrifice as a virtue. Praise students who design for longevity.
Show real-world earning strategies used by working artists and entrepreneurs today to actually fund the entire cost of living—without needing a spouse, an inheritance, or a 9-to-5.
Incorporate financial structure into artistic planning. If they’re building a recital or another event, show how it could also be a monetizable Intellectual Property product or community fundraiser.
Give students diagnostic tools—or simply the permission—to recognize when a gig—or a coaching program—is exploitative, not just “good experience.” Make it clear they don’t have to “make you proud” and pad their résumé at the expense of their energy, value, or self-respect.
Reframe “professionalism” to include protecting energy, pricing, and dignity—use my Standards as a starting point.
Final Reminder: This isn’t about abandoning artistry. It’s about restoring its ability to hold. If your syllabus doesn’t allow for the Rossini outcome, are you really preparing students for the real world— or are they quietly being groomed for beautiful collapse?
Let’s stop canonizing dysfunction. Let’s build more careers that don’t require a eulogy to be taken seriously.
Much gratitude for reading! Please share this post with any friend or colleague who would appreciate the insights and perspectives.
It’s a vetted list of mentors who meet the structural standardsmost people—not even those who went to business school—were ever taught to name. It’s meant to help you avoid the very traps my other essays expose.
The truth is, far too many music school graduates are especially vulnerable to the predatory sales funnels that pass for “mentorship.”
The list is also a tool for institutions ready to recalibrate how they guide and refer students—without defaulting to the loudest marketer in the room. (And if your grapevine is only offering the same voices, it’s time for a new grapevine!)
Share the list with students looking for guidance. Share it with professors, advisors, and colleagues who make referrals. Share it not just for the remarkable people featured— but for the standardsalongside them. Standards rooted in economic integrity. And human decency.
Anyone who does not like these standards might be unintentionally showing the hand they want to play:
Share the above list. Screenshot it. Save it.
We can raise the bar—quietly but firmly—for everyone. Without needing to name names. Without needing to point fingers. We can just let these standards do the talking.
—THIS is how we can really start to change the economy for the better for everyone!
AND ONE FINAL PROGRAM NOTE for Decision-Makers, Educators, and Institutional Leaders:
If this essay challenged your assumptions—or gave voice to instincts you’ve been quietly carrying—I’m here to help with the next step.
After all, Rossini did say:
“Give me a laundry list, and I’ll set it to music.”
So whether you're leading a department, growing a business, shaping a legacy-centered team, or guiding an artistic institution, in addition to my private coaching, I offer:
Student workshops and guest lectures on self-worth, earning with integrity, and the modern-day realities of entrepreneurship
“Prosperity Pedagogy” trainings for faculty and staff who want to evolve academic culture and equip students for real-world economic clarity
Discreet consulting and leadership coaching for those recalibrating from within—and ready to do so with more structural integrity and less noise
If you're seeking curriculum recalibration, strategic redesign, or related consulting support—Let’s talk. Here or over on LinkedIn.
Because the systems that hold art, talent, and trust shouldn’t require collapse to be taken seriously. They should be built to quietly endure.
As Rossini also said:
“Nothing primes inspiration more than necessity, whether it be the presence of a copyist waiting for your work or the prodding of an impresario tearing his hair.”
And if he could meet a deadline without sacrificing brilliance, we can certainly build a system that rewards sustainability.
There is so much delicious stuff to digest in this article. Fabulous and spot on. I’m writing a piece now about my college teaching experience. When I mentioned in a faculty meeting that we needed to create courses that help secure a financial future and financial literacy for them, a colleague exclaimed, “it’s not our place to secure jobs for students. That’s LinkedIn. We are here to teach art.” And then boom, the dean started asking for change and the resistance was huge. Needless to say, I didn’t get hired again. But I’m writing a piece about it. Thanks for your work! Bravo!🙌
There is so much delicious stuff to digest in this article. Fabulous and spot on. I’m writing a piece now about my college teaching experience. When I mentioned in a faculty meeting that we needed to create courses that help secure a financial future and financial literacy for them, a colleague exclaimed, “it’s not our place to secure jobs for students. That’s LinkedIn. We are here to teach art.” And then boom, the dean started asking for change and the resistance was huge. Needless to say, I didn’t get hired again. But I’m writing a piece about it. Thanks for your work! Bravo!🙌