I would estimate that for every artist sipping champagne at an opening reception -- clad in Gaultier and coiffed with contrived insouciance -- there are hundreds of other artists sitting alone in cheap apartments eating cold noodles. "Starving artist" may be a cliche, but the truth is that most people making art don't make much money at all. They do have those noodles, and have about as much social status as an earthworm.

Permit me to stray a little and offer this tidbit of wisdom from the people at Rising Mist Organic Farms: "If it were not for the earthworm, it is entirely possible that civilization as we know it would never have developed at all!" See, the fertility of the Nile Valley, and hence the rise of Egypt, were due to the presence of burrowing earthworms.

Cleopatra herself decreed the earthworm a sacred creature. In the modern era, the starving artist plays a similarly vital role in the development of urban environments. It goes something like this: Neighborhood is derelict for whatever reason, rents fall, and poor artists move in because they can get more space for less money. Soon, cafes, shops and clubs open which, because of their location and artist clientele, tend to be cheap and interesting.