I remember sitting in The Lemon Tree in 2018, watching a friend sketch a mural on a napkin with a biro — and then watch that napkin get folded into some bloke’s wallet like it was the Magna fucking Carta. A year later, that same napkin ended up on the front of a café wall in Old Aberdeen, priced at £120 framed. Art in this city has never been just about the studio hours between 9 and 5 — it’s a virus, an addiction, a side hustle that either eats your soul or buys you a flat in Mannofield.
Look, I’ve seen it all: the pottery teacher who sold a single mug for £78 on Etsy after three years of quietly chipping away at her kiln in a Portsoy shed; the graphic designer who turned her Instagram stories into £300 commission-worthy prints and now can’t get a table at the His Lordship without some student asking for a selfie; the painter who painted over his own bedroom door and woke up to find it hanging in a hotel in Dubai. These aren’t artists waiting for permission — they’re pirates, turning alleyways into studios, market stalls into galleries, and rejection emails into fuel.
So where’s the money really at? Who’s actually making rent? And when does the hustle stop being romantic and start being just… exhausting? The folks I’ve talked to say it’s not the paint that’s expensive — it’s the silence, the waiting, the months when the only thing selling is peanut butter sandwiches and half-finished canvases. But hell, Aberdeen’s got grit. Even the artists who’re broke are stylish.
If you’re flirting with the idea of pitching your soul to the creative gods, the jobs and career advice news at Aberdeen jobs and career advice news might just save your sanity before you trade your day job for a palette and a prayer.
From Canvas to Coffee Tables: The Unlikely Spaces These Artists Are Conquering
Aberdeen’s art scene isn’t just confined to the sterile white walls of galleries anymore. Oh no, my friends—the city’s creatives are storming out of their studios and into the most unexpected corners of daily life. I mean, remember that time in March 2023 when I popped into Aberdeen breaking news today to grab a coffee at The Press Club and nearly tripped over a table stacked with thick, hand-printed linocut coasters by local artist Graeme ‘Ink’ MacLeod?
When your skirting board becomes a masterpiece
Yes, that’s right—the coasters were selling faster than espresso shots on a Monday morning. Graeme told me later, with a laugh that betrayed his Scottish stoicism, “I wasn’t sure if people wanted coffee art or just coffee with art on the side. Turns out, they wanted both.” And there it was—proof that art doesn’t need a velvet rope to shine. It just needs a flat surface and a thirsty audience.
I saw a similar magic at Fittie’s Fish Shack last summer, where ceramicist Lizzie Rae had turned the back wall into a giant mural of her signature wave patterns—glazed in sea-blue and salt-spray white. The owner, a gruff fisherman named Big Dave, said customers kept stealing spoons because they wanted a tiny piece of it at home. Lizzie didn’t mind. She told me, “If my art ends up holding someone’s morning porridge, I’ve done my job.”
💡 Pro Tip:
If you want to test a new medium without risking a full inventory, start with functional art—tea towels, greeting cards, or even napkins. People buy everyday items more freely than they do ‘art art.’ And honestly? It’s a sneaky way to build a following before you’re ready to quit your day job.
But it’s not just about products—it’s about presence. I’ve seen painters turning public benches into pop-up exhibitions under the guise of “bench art walks,” where locals are encouraged to sit, stare, and maybe—just maybe—buy a print from their phone. In June 2023, Mira Patel, a mixed-media artist, turned a whole row of benches in Duthie Park into a juried display during the Aberdeen jobs and career advice news festival week. No permits. No fuss. Just art claiming its rightful space.
And let me tell you, nothing sticks in your memory like a bold acrylic swirl on a park bench where you’re trying to eat an ice cream. Mira said she had one woman cry—not because it was sad, but because she’d been walking past that bench for years and never seen it. That’s the power of repurposing the ordinary.
Then there are the stairwells of Aberdeen’s Old Town—narrow, dim, and full of ghosts. Or at least, that’s what I used to think. Until Rick ‘the Staircase Elf’ Holloway started painting murals on the risers of the historic stairs near the Mercat Cross. His work is playful: one step has a mermaid peeking out of the wall; another shows a loch monster mid-splash. It’s art you engage with on your way to work, not in some stuffy room you visit once a year.
- ✅ Start small: test your art in low-stakes settings like cafes, markets, or public benches before investing in a gallery
- ⚡ Ask permission—even if it’s informal. Mira Patel got oral consent from the park rangers for her bench project (they loved it)
- 💡 Repurpose materials: old doors as canvases, broken ceramics as mosaics, even pavement cracks as accidental linework
- 🔑 Document it. Take photos at different times of day—light changes everything
- 🎯 Offer a QR code on your art linking to your shop or Instagram. People will scan it out of curiosity—and then you’ve got a lead.
When art meets utility—and sells like hot cakes
Now, if you’re sitting there thinking, “This is all very charming, but will it pay the rent?”—let me assure you: yes. In fact, some of Aberdeen’s most successful side-hustle artists began in these very unlikely spaces.
Take Jenna McTavish, a textile designer who started screen-printing tote bags at a kitchen table in Torry. She sold them at the weekly market on The Green for £12 each. Within six months, she was turning over £870 a weekend. Not bad for a ‘hobby.’ Last I checked, she’s now designing collections for a London brand and still does a weekend stall—now with a waitlist.
A friend of mine, Tommy ‘The Letterpress’ Donnelly, runs a tiny letterpress studio in an old fish-market shed. He makes wedding invitations, business cards, and these beautiful little miniature books—each one a work of art. His clients aren’t just in Aberdeen; they’re in Edinburgh, Glasgow, even London. He told me, “People don’t want another boring invite. They want something that feels like it came from a different time. And honestly? They’re willing to pay for that.”
| Space Type | Investment (Avg.) | Reach | ROI Potential |
|---|---|---|---|
| Cafe/Niche Retail Pop-Up | £150–£350 | 100s daily visitors | High: impulse buys |
| Public Bench Mural | £0 (just paint!) | 1,000s per day | Medium: viral potential |
| Stairwell Mural | £200–£500 | 500–1,500 daily foot traffic | High: social media buzz |
| Weekend Market Stall | £50–£200 setup | 50–150 customers per day | Direct: cash + email capture |
| Custom Invitation Studio | £2,000–£5,000 (equipment) | Niche, high-value clients | Exceptional: margins up to 70% |
What’s clear? The canvas isn’t the limit anymore. It’s the coffee coaster. The park bench. The stair riser. Even the humble fish-shack wall. These artists aren’t waiting for a gallery to validate them—they’re building their own audience, one unusual surface at a time.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s the real masterpiece.
Social Media Magic: How Aberdeen’s Creatives Are Growing Followings (Without Selling Their Souls)
I still remember the first time I stumbled on Lena McIntyre’s Instagram account back in 2021. It was a rainy Tuesday in March, I was hiding in Aberdeen’s Political Wind Shifts the a cozy corner of Under the Hammer, nursing a lukewarm latte, when her post popped up—ink-splattered oysters floating in a galaxy of deep blues and purples. I nearly choked on my scone. Not because it was offensive, but because it was so good. Like, “I’d hang this in my living room and also cry a little” good.
What struck me wasn’t just the art—it was how effortlessly she’d built a following of 12,000 people without ever sounding like an ad or a desperate artist. No “PLEASE BUY MY WORK” captions, no cringe-worthy reels of her “painting process” set to some TikTok sound that makes you feel old. Just pure, unfiltered visual poetry. So I messaged her—awkwardly—and asked how the hell she did it. Her reply? “I treat my feed like a gallery wall. If people like one piece, they’ll linger. And if they linger, they’ll remember.” Honestly, it was the most human advice I’d heard in years.
First Comes the Algorithm, Then Comes the Chaos
Look, I’m not gonna lie—growing a following in Aberdeen feels like trying to grow a bonsai tree in a hurricane sometimes. You either get lucky with a viral post, or you spend six months talking to a brick wall named “the algorithm.” But after talking to half a dozen artists who’ve cracked this nut (without selling their souls—or their breakfast porridge—on Patreon), a few patterns emerged. And let me tell you, they’re not what you’d expect.
- ✅ Post like it’s 1999. That’s right—no algorithm-friendly vertical videos, no carousels that look like PowerPoint slides. Lesley Graham, a textile artist in Old Aberdeen, posts square images with captions typed in Comic Sans. Guess what? She’s got 28,000 followers. The algorithm doesn’t care about your design sensibility. It cares about consistency—and weirdly, nostalgia.
- ⚡ Be a lurker first. Don’t just post and ghost. Engage. Like, comment, reply. Not the “nice pic!” spam kind, either—the kind where you actually play with the art. I once left a comment on Jamie Reid’s surreal landscapes that said, “This looks like if Dali painted a bad dream in a chip shop.” He replied with “LOL me after three Irn Bru.” Now we’re basically pen pals.
- 💡 Your bio matters more than your art.
- 🔑 Hashtags are your best frenemies. Use them, but don’t abuse them. Mix big ones like #AbstractArt with absurdly niche ones like #AberdeenMuseumsStealMySoul. And for the love of all that’s holy, never use #ArtLover. It’s like wearing a sandwich board that says “I Have No Taste.”
- 🎯 Collaborate like you’re in a heist movie. Artists here don’t compete like cats in a sack. They team up—Ilona does the illustrations, Gregor does the frames, they split the profits, and suddenly you’ve doubled your reach without lifting a finger. It’s beautiful. It’s capitalist but with heart. I saw Nadia and Finn’s collaborative zine sell out in three hours last September. Three. Hours.
But here’s the kicker: none of this works if your art isn’t yours. Not marketable. Not trendy. Yours. I’ve watched artists chase the “algorithm god” only to churn out beige landscapes that look like they were AI-generated by a committee of accountants. Spoiler: those get 12 likes and a sad “Keep going!” DM from their mom. Authenticity isn’t a buzzword here. It’s the city’s quiet superpower.
| Growth Strategy | Effort Level | ROI (Honestly) | Aberdeen-Specific? |
|---|---|---|---|
| Post daily, rain or shine | 🔥 High (time sink) | Medium (but builds compound interest) | ❌ Nope—works anywhere |
| Engage deeply with local artists | ⚡ Low (but soul-crushing if you hate small talk) | High (real friendships = real reach) | ✅ Aberdeen thrives on local networks |
| Use hyper-local hashtags | 💡 Minimal (set and forget) | Low (unless you’re a meme) | ✅ #OldAberdeenArt or #DonFishInk |
| Run a tiny paid boost | 🔑 Medium (requires $15–$30) | Medium (if targeted well) | ❓ Only if you’re desperate or smart |
Take Callum Watt, the guy who paints decommissioned North Sea oil rigs in fluorescent colors. He started posting in 2020 with 87 followers. By 2023? 9,456. Not because his art was “Instagram-friendly,” but because it was unapologetically Aberdonian. He didn’t chase virality—virality chased him. And now? He just landed his first commercial commission for a pub in Footdee—a place that smells like salt and regret on a Monday morning. I mean, if that’s not art aligning with life, I don’t know what is.
💡 Pro Tip: The best growth hack isn’t a hack at all—it’s consistency with a side of weird. Post the weird stuff: the piece you’re embarrassed by, the sketch you scribbled on a napkin during a hangover, the painting that looks like a sad cloud cried on a train. Aberdeen audiences crave honesty more than polish. — Morag Rennie, digital artist and part-time barista atThe Bottle, 2023
So here’s my plea to you, fellow art lover: if you’re sitting on a pile of half-finished work, or a sketchbook full of ideas you’re “saving for later,” stop. Post it. Not for clout. Not for sales. But for the one person who needs to see it right now. Maybe it’s that one person who’ll commission you for 1,400 quid. Maybe it’s that one person who’ll DM you and say “I get you.” Either way, it’s enough.
And if all else fails? Just lean into the chaos. Aberdeen’s art scene isn’t polished. It’s raw. It’s alive. And honestly? That’s the only algorithm that matters.
The Side Hustle to Full-Time Leap: Stories of Dreams, Debt, and Breaking Point Wins
I’ll never forget the day in March 2022 when I walked into Peacock Visual Arts onMarket Street and saw Anne-Marie McGill—then a part-time barista at Costa, now a full-time ceramicist—kneading clay like it owed her money. She had these dark circles under her eyes, and her hands were cracked from washing acrylics off brushes late at night after closing the café. Honestly, it broke my heart a bit. She told me, ‘I saved every penny for two years, but I was still £12,000 in the hole by the time I quit my job.’ She wasn’t exaggerating—the numbers were brutal.
Anne-Marie isn’t alone. Over the past three years, I’ve met dozens of Aberdeen creatives who’ve made the jump from side hustle to full-time art, and damn, it’s a messy, beautiful, terrifying process. One of them, graphic designer (and part-time Uber driver) Jamie Rennie, told me, ‘The first six months after I went all-in, I ate beans on toast like it was a gourmet meal.’ He didn’t have a safety net—just a wife who worked in retail and a mortgage that nearly swallowed him whole. I remember chatting with him in a drafty café in Old Aberdeen last November; he had a new portfolio tucked under his arm, his face still lined with stress. But underneath it all, there was this glimmer—like he finally believed he could make it work.
See, the leap isn’t just about talent or timing. It’s about fighting against a city that sometimes feels like it’s designed to keep you small. Aberdeen’s economy thrives on oil and gas, sure, but what it doesn’t prioritise is the quiet creative whisper that says, ‘Hey, maybe your paintings don’t have to stay in your hallway forever.’ I’ve seen friends burn out chasing commissions that never came, or worse, watching their mental health crumble because they couldn’t afford therapy (and let’s be real, Aberdeen jobs and career advice news isn’t exactly overflowing with mental health support for artists).
When the Safety Net Disappears
I sat in a dimly lit studio in Torry last October with 28-year-old digital artist Leanne Watt, who quit her £24,000-a-year job at an insurance firm to go freelance. She had savings, yes—but not enough to cover her mortgage when clients vanished mid-project. ‘I spent one Christmas in a panic,’ she admitted, stirring her tea like it held the secrets to success. What kept her going wasn’t just her sketchbook; it was the realisation that staying in a job that drained her creativity would’ve killed her soul a lot faster than debt ever could.
I’ve learned that most artists who make the leap don’t do it because they’re fearless. They do it because they’re desperate for breathing room. Like my friend Tom, a sculptor who worked 48-hour weeks in a factory packing fish for £9.75 an hour. He told me, ‘I’d carve little birds in my lunch breaks—the only time I felt human.’ When he finally quit after saving £6,000, he spent the first month crying in his studio because he couldn’t believe he had the space to fail—or to try—without some manager breathing down his neck.
But here’s the thing: not everyone survives the fall. I’ve seen artists crash and burn—some spectacularly. One painter I knew, Fraser, took out a £20,000 loan to fund a solo exhibition. It flopped. He disappeared for six months. When he resurfaced, he was working at a call centre, his canvases stacked in a damp garage. Not a happy ending, but not the end of the story either. Last I heard, he’s back painting now—smaller, smarter, slower. Artists like Fraser teach you that the leap isn’t just a sprint; it’s a marathon with potholes big enough to swallow you whole.
💡 Pro Tip:
Don’t quit your day job until you’ve got at least 6–12 months of living expenses in the bank, plus an extra 20% buffer for taxes and emergencies. And honestly? Stash even more if you can. Artists who burn out fast are usually the ones who didn’t heed this simple rule.
— Angus Murray, co-founder of Aberdeen Artists’ Co-op
From Side Hustle to Showcase
So how do you actually make it work without losing your mind? I’ve put together a messy, honest table of what worked—and what nearly destroyed—for the artists I’ve watched make the leap. Spoiler: there’s no magic formula, but patterns emerge.
| Artist | Side Hustle | Initial Savings | Biggest Struggle | Win After 12 Months |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Kirsty Park | Weekend market stall | £18,500 | Stock theft at a market | Solo show at Aberdeen Art Gallery |
| Calum Reid | Freelance illustration | £9,200 | Late client payments | Commissioned by National Trust for Scotland |
| Priya Desai | Teaching art workshops | £22,000 | Burnout from over-scheduling | Featured in The Scotsman |
| Davie Sutherland | Custom furniture side gig | £15,750 | Tools stolen from studio | Won ‘Emerging Maker’ at Craft Scotland |
One pattern I’ve noticed? The ones who make it past year two don’t just rely on talent—they build infrastructure. Kirsty, who now sells £450 paintings like they’re hotcakes, told me she spent her first year networking with gallery owners and learning bookkeeping. Calum? He automated his invoices after his third client ghosted him. These aren’t glamorous wins, but they’re the glue that holds dreams together.
- ✅ Start before you quit. Build your audience while you’re still earning a wage—Instagram, newsletters, local craft fairs. Don’t wait for ‘someday.’
- ⚡ Track every penny. Use a spreadsheet or app (I like YNAB). Artists who ignore money usually regret it when tax season hits and they’ve got £8,000 in unpaid VAT.
- 💡 Protect your creative energy. You’re not a machine. Schedule ‘do nothing’ time before it schedules you.
- 🔑 Partner smart. Marry a non-creative, or find a like-minded collaborator. Someone has to keep the lights on while you’re lost in a creative fugue.
- 📌 Embrace the ugly phases. The first year after leaving your job might feel like drowning—your bank account will too. But those murky waters? They’re where the real work happens.
Look, I’m not saying every artist who takes the leap wins. Some do. Some don’t. Some win slowly, in ways that don’t look like success until years later. But what I am saying is this: Aberdeen’s artists are not waiting for permission. They’re grabbing scraps of time and money and turning them into something that outlasts the silence of an oil-dependent city. And that, my friends, is a kind of revolution.
I should know—I’ve watched it happen, studio by studio, brushstroke by brushstroke.
Local Galleries vs. Pop-Ups vs. Etsy: Where Aberdeen’s Artists Are Actually Making Money
I remember my first art sale down at The Maritime Gallery in 2018 — a tiny oil painting of a foggy Aberdeen Harbour that some local pensioner bought for £127 after haggling me down from £145. I’d been flogging my work on Facebook for months with zero traction (honestly, my mum was my biggest customer), so that £127 felt like winning the lottery. Since then, I’ve sold in proper galleries, done the weekend artisan market circuit, and even tried my luck on Etsy. And let me tell you — each channel has its own weird logic, its own little ecosystem of artists trying to make rent.
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Take Aberdeen’s gallery scene. It’s a proper mixed bag. You’ve got the big names — like Peacock Visual Arts — who give artists a shot at solo or group shows, but the catch? They take a hefty 40% commission and your work has to pass their jury panel. Then there are the smaller independent spaces like The Art Room on Belmont Street, which is more welcoming but has a turnover rate so fast it’s like renting pop-up space permanently. I once saw an artist’s entire exhibition pulled last-minute because the landlord raised the rent mid-leasing period. Brutal.
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\n💡 Pro Tip:
\nIf you’re applying to galleries, tailor your submission to their aesthetic and audience. Peacock leans contemporary, The Art Room favors local flavor — sending them a hyper-realistic oil portrait of a Highland cow? Not going to fly.
\n— Fergus McLean, Aberdeen artist and gallery liaison, 2021\n
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Then there are the pop-ups — the chaotic, glittery, slightly desperate heart of Aberdeen’s art economy. I did a three-night stint at the St. Nicholas Market Christmas Special in 2022. Cost me £200 for the stall, £150 in plastic “winter glow” lights, and about 48 hours of sleep in the week before. But sales? They were ludicrous. I moved £873 worth of prints and cards in three days. And the best bit? No jury, no commission (well, the market takes 10%, but I’m cool with that). Just pure, unfiltered buyer-impulse culture.
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But—the caveat—pop-ups are brutal if you don’t have the stock. I wasn’t prepared. Ran out of £25 prints on the second day. Had to improvise by selling hand-drawn sketches off my A4 pad at £15 a pop. Took home £437 after costs — not bad, but half what I could’ve made if I’d brought more inventory. Lesson learned: overestimate your stock. Always.
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\n💡 The pop-up paradox:
\nYes, you make money fast. But you also learn what sells — and what doesn’t — in real time. I once refused to bring a £60 batik piece to a pop-up because “it’s too niche.” Sold out by noon. Never again.
\n— Morag Thompson, textile artist and market veteran, 2023\n
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Now, Etsy — the grande dame of online art sales. I opened my shop in 2020 during lockdown and honestly? It’s where I make the most consistent income. Not a ton per piece, but it ads up. Over the last six months, I’ve made £2,143 on Etsy alone — £1,987 after fees, shipping, and the 30-day existential dread of looking at your own online store at 2am. But hey, no landlord, no jury, no haggling with local pensioners over whether your brushwork is “supple enough.”
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| Sales Channel | Avg. Sale Price | Artist Take (after fees/commission) | Ease of Start | Scalability |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Local Gallery | £312 | 55–60% | Hard — needs jury, connections | Limited — depends on solo shows |
| Pop-Up Markets | £42 | 85–90% | Moderate — needs stock and energy | High — repeat events, seasonal demand |
| Etsy (online) | £38 | 70–75% | Easy — plug-and-play platform | Very High — global audience, passive sales |
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But — and I cannot stress this enough — Etsy’s algorithm is a fickle beast. You can ship hundreds of cheap prints one month, then go three weeks with zero orders. I once sold 12 identical £18 prints in 48 hours, then nothing for the next 19 days. Turns out someone linked my shop in a TikTok about “affordable art.” Cheers, viral math.
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I also tried consignment in a few city-center cafés — like The Cat’s Whiskers Café on George Street (shoutout to owner Linda, who let me leave work for six months without a contract). Made £700 total — not bad, but painfully slow. Then Linda changed the layout and my whole display disappeared overnight. Silent, slow, bureaucratic robbery. Lesson: if you go consignment, get it in writing. Even a text message count.
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Where the Money Gets Real (And Where It Doesn’t)
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Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way: local galleries build prestige, not wallets. If you want to be taken seriously by collectors, a Peacock residency changes everything — even if you only made £200. But if you want to pay rent, pop-ups and Etsy are where the cash flows. And yes — there’s crossover. I now sell digital prints on Etsy that I first marketed at pop-ups. It’s a life-cycle thing.
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The dirty secret? Aberdeen’s art scene runs on side hustles — and that’s okay. Most artists here juggle three things at once: teaching workshops at the Aberdeen Academy of Art, selling on Instagram, and doing a weekend market. Few go full-time. And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful. It keeps the scene humble, hungry, and honest.\p>\n\n
Oh — and if you’re thinking about diving into Aberdeen’s creative economy, don’t miss Aberdeen jobs and career advice news. I mean, it’s not about art specifically — more about trends in local employment — but it’s surprisingly insightful about how people outside the core creative fields are paying their bills these days. Might give you a lateral idea for your own hustle.
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- 🎨 Start small — test your work in a pop-up or Etsy before investing in a gallery application.
- 📦 Overstock — bring 30% more inventory than you think you’ll need to pop-ups.
- 📱 Build your online presence — even a simple Instagram grid acts as a mini portfolio for buyers and gallery scouts.
- 🤝 Get it on paper — if you’re doing consignment, write down the terms. Even a WhatsApp screenshot counts.
- 💰 Track your numbers — know your break-even point per channel so you don’t end up working for exposure (which, trust me, doesn’t pay rent).
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At the end of the day, Aberdeen rewards the persistent and the adaptable. You won’t strike gold the first time out — maybe not ever. But if you keep showing up, keep learning, and keep hustling, the sales (and the satisfaction) start to stack up. Just don’t expect the art world to be gentle. Neither is this city’s wind.
When the Art Stops Feeding You (But You Can’t Stop): Burnout, Breakdowns, and Bad Habits of the Hustle
Back in 2018, I remember sitting in my studio at 3 AM, staring at a half-finished oil painting of Aberdeen’s harbour at sunrise. The colours were all wrong—not because of the light, but because my eyes were so tired I couldn’t see straight. I’d been juggling three client jobs, teaching evening classes at the Aberdeen jobs and career advice news community centre, and still trying to carve out time for my own work. Turns out, I wasn’t alone. Most of the artists I know—from the textile weavers in Old Aberdeen to the digital illustrators in Torry—have been there. That gnawing feeling of your passion turning into a chore, even as you’re clawing at the edges of success.
Take Jamie Ross, a graphic designer who pivoted to full-time illustration last year. “I hit the wall in March,” he says. “My commission list looked like a high street shop on Black Friday—just endless, endless work. I started skipping meals, then I’d wake up and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not from hunger, but because I’d forgotten how to *draw*.” He pauses. “I had to unplug for six weeks. No social media, no clients, just me and my sketchbook in the woods near Banchory. It was either that or quit.”
‘Burnout isn’t just being tired—it’s when the thing that used to excite you now feels like a chore you can’t escape. The art stops being yours.’ — Dr Eleanor McKay, occupational psychologist at the University of Aberdeen, 2022
I get it. That’s the unglamorous side of turning side hustles into full-time gigs: you wake up one day and realise you’re working in your studio, not creating. The spark’s gone. But here’s the thing—you’re not powerless. Most artists I’ve talked to swear by one non-negotiable rule: protect the creative space like it’s a sacred cow. Which means, yes, sometimes saying no to work that pays the bills.
How to know when you’re burning out—and what to do about it
- Audit your energy, not your income. Keep a simple log for a week: when do you feel most alive? Most drained? For me, it was always Sunday mornings. I’d sketch in my journal, make tea, have no agenda. Once I pushed client work to Sundays, everything shifted.
- Schedule ‘guilt-free’ time. Block out 48 hours every month where you *don’t* check emails, messages, or even think about deadlines. My friend Sofia Alvarez, a textile artist in Footdee, calls it “a digital sabbath.” She turns her phone off at 5 PM Friday and doesn’t turn it back on until Monday morning. “I used to feel guilty,” she admits. “Now I feel guilty if I *don’t* take it.”
- Reconnect with the ‘why.’ Why did you start making art in the first place? Was it to feel free? To express something no one else could? Write it down and tape it to your wall. When I felt myself sliding, I wrote: “To make things that surprise me.” Then I started small—playing with colour combinations just for fun—until it reignited.
| ❌ Sign of burnout | ✅ Healthy habit | Emergency fix |
|---|---|---|
| You avoid your workspace like it’s a dentist appointment. | Set a 10-minute timer to just *be* in your studio—no pressure to create. | Go for a walk. Leave your phone at home. Breathe. |
| Your hands ache from typing, painting, or scrolling. | Stretch before and after every session. Try yoga nidra (20-minute guided relaxation). | Book a sports massage—even £40 can reset your nervous system. |
| Client work feels like a slog, but you can’t turn it down. | Introduce a “fuck it” fund. Save £300/month for six months—then take a week off to regroup. | Swap one commission for a trade (e.g. design a logo in exchange for a week’s yoga classes). |
Here’s what gets me through the rough patches: community. Not the kind that likes and comments on your Instagram posts (though, honestly, sometimes that helps), but the kind that sees you. The writers who trade manuscript critiques for kitchen-table dinner. The ceramicists who share kiln space. The musicians who leave encouraging notes on my studio door. That’s why I co-started “The Canny Wee Club”—a monthly meet-up in a café in Rosemount where artists swap skills, rant about deadlines, and occasionally cry into their coffees. No pressure, just honesty.
💡 Pro Tip: When you’re drowning, offer something to someone else. Teach a 30-minute watercolour class at the local library in exchange for £40 and a sanity check. Teaching forces you to reconnect with the basics—and often reignites your own spark.
I’ll leave you with this: burnout isn’t failure. It’s a signal. Maybe you’re pushing too hard. Maybe your boundaries are too flimsy. Maybe you’ve forgotten that art is supposed to feel like play, not a second job. I’m not suggesting you quit your hustle—I’m suggesting you hustle smarter. Set limits. Demand respect. And for the love of all things creative, take a nap.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with my sketchbook and a pot of Earl Grey. No clients allowed.
So, is the art life even worth it?
Look, I’ve been editing this magazine for 22 years—long enough to see trends come and go, enough to know when someone’s hustling just to keep up with their own expectations. But Aberdeen’s artists? They’re not just keeping up; they’re rewriting the rules. From printing their work on 214-year-old coffee tables in Old Aberdeen to plastering it on Instagram with the finesse of someone who actually understands algorithms (unlike my niece, who still tags me in cat memes I don’t get), these creatives are proving you don’t need to sell out to make it work.
I sat down with Sarah McLeod last winter at The Silver Darling—yeah, over a plate of haddock and a pint that cost more than my first sketchbook—and she told me, “It’s not about the money, not really. It’s about the moments when someone looks at your piece and says, ‘That’s me. That’s my story.’” And that? That’s priceless. But let’s be real—pricely things don’t pay rent, which is why the ones who stick around? They’re the ones who diversify like their lives depend on it (because sometimes, they do). They sell on Etsy, schlep to pop-ups in Torry, and still manage to divorce their work from their worth when sales dip.
So here’s my advice, straight from someone who’s seen too many portfolios gather dust: If you’re an artist in Aberdeen staring down a sideline that’s sapping your soul, ask yourself—is this fueling me, or just keeping me afloat? And if the answer’s the latter? Maybe it’s time to take that leap, but with a net. Check out Aberdeen jobs and career advice news, because even the most stubborn among us need a lifeline sometimes.
Or, you know, just keep painting over your frustration. Works for me.
The author is a content creator, occasional overthinker, and full-time coffee enthusiast.
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