Apparently, the directors of the O'Neill Playwrights Conference put out the proposition that the Conference might want a share of a play's future earnings (I read that the phrase "in perpetuity" was used) if that play goes on to have future earnings.  Christopher Durang and Marsha Norman sent out a letter asking that people boycott the Conference and protest against such a proposition.  And then the Conference apparently backed down from the floated notion of sharing in a play's subsidiary rights.

Blistering language appeared on several of the listserves I've joined, almost everyone in high dudgeon about such a blatant attempt to make money that would go to support the Conference's work (which is, despite any protestations about not mixing art and commerce, all about getting a play in shape so that it can go out have an audience—hopefully a paying one—in the world).

I didn't add my notes to the chorus, but I didn't feel that what the Conference broached was an entirely bad idea: making money off the work that it does? What's wrong with that?  Being "non-profit" doesn't mean that one doesn't care about profit, about building up stable revenue, reserves, savings—it only means that one has to go about the money-making in a way that's different than Google's way.

The "debate" about art versus commerce has always felt tortured to me.  The sides are drawn much too restrictively—art is this, commerce is anti-art, end of discussion.  But, of course, any artist wouldn't mind at least a little commerce connected with his or her work, at least enough to make the proverbial ends meet—and I suspect amounts above the ends-meeting level would not be rejected.  In short, every artist toiling away in whatever shade of darkness would not mind being rewarded by the sweet smell of monetary success.

And just as for individual artists, so for arts organizations.  The Museum of Modern Art and Brooklyn Museum can offer free admission because certain days of the week are covered by Target—that blend of art and commerce allows me to see things I normally couldn't afford.  Signature Theatre is offering $15 tickets to its shows this season because of corporate underwriting; ergo, I get to see August Wilson's plays.  In short, without some blend of art and commerce, we would have all commerce and mostly no art.

Whatever our personal opinions about the matter, art is a commodity, just as everything eventually gets commoditized in a capitalist system.  On the most blatant level, it is a commodity for buying and selling, as with paintings that fetch enormous sums at auction. But on more metaphorical levels, artists have always treated art as a commodity.  They "produce" it in order to "sell" it to an audience—perhaps not primarily for money, perhaps primarily for fame or notoriety, but certainly for some return on the investment of time and effort to produce it. Very few artists want to toil in obscurity producing stuff that no one sees, and so, inherent in the very act of artistic creation is the imperative to have some sort of commerce with the world. And this is not just semantic playing-around—artists need this commerce, need this struggle of resistance and acceptance, need the worry about whether the art can support not only their soul but also their rent and food budgets.  In short, artists need all sorts of commerce to fund their art spiritually and materially. 

So, the issue on the table should not be framed antipathetically—art versus commerce—but dialectically—how commerce feeds arts feeds commerce feeds art and so on.  All artists need to think and act more entrepreneurially anyway, and especially theatre artists, since the world of theatre is most infected with this notion that the lack of large commercial appeal is an anointment of authenticity. 

So I hope the O'Neill can find a way to make some money off the promotion of the work it does with playwrights, and playwrights should not resent being asked to contribute to the organization that may help them rise out of obscurity and into the light of recognition.  In fact, they should take the lesson to heart and find healthy ways to commoditize themselves so that they do not have to march to someone else's drummer all of their writing lives.  A good case in point here is Neil Labute.  Whatever one thinks of his work, Labute is very successful because he has found a way to turn Neil Labute into "Neil Labute," that is, the property about which people talk and with which they make deals.  Will he be remembered the way Shakespeare is remembered? Who cares?  He can pay the rent and put food on his table and have enough left over to take a vacation or two and not have to punch a clock that someone else owns.  And what is so wrong with that?