Renewing the Possible
America’s culture sector is alive with possibility… but is burdened by systems that no longer serve its needs.
By now, it’s an old adage that the not-for-profit model feels weary, stretched thin by the unpredictability of philanthropy and the inadequacy of public funding. The commercial model, on the other hand, measures value in profit rather than the integrity of artistic expression, squeezing creativity into marketable forms and leaving countless voices unheard. Both systems falter under the weight of inequity, leaving us to ask: Is it even possible to imagine anew?
For me, like you, this question is personal. I’ve spent my life working places where art pulses through the streets, shaping the identities of entire communities. I have always seen the arts as more than entertainment—they are the soul of our collective humanity. Through these experiences, I’ve held to the belief that the arts are at their most potent when they reflect the depth and diversity of the human experience. It is about building environments where artists can take risks, where communities can find their voices, and where we can all be reminded of the shared humanity that binds us.
Joining the Guild of Future Architects (GoFA) in 2020 profoundly shaped how I approach systems thinking and collaborative design. GoFA operated at the intersection of imagination, strategy, and community, bringing together individuals across disciplines to envision futures grounded in equity, sustainability, and shared humanity. We defined "future architecture" not merely as the structures we built but as the processes and relationships we designed to shape the conditions for collective well-being. GoFA’s core values—reciprocity, curiosity and radical inclusivity—encouraged its members to critically examine existing systems while embracing the possibilities of transformation. Through the people of GoFA, I learned to see systems as dynamic and interconnected, where small, intentional interventions can create ripples of lasting change. This perspective has been invaluable in my work, allowing me to frame challenges within our sector as opportunities for co-creating better frameworks.
When I turn to Etel Adnan, the luminous Lebanese-American poet, painter, and philosopher, I find a framework for reimagining. Born in Beirut in 1925, Adnan’s life was one of bold crossings: between continents, languages, and disciplines. Her paintings—often simple yet transcendent—evoke a sense of the eternal, while her writings, filled with longing and wisdom, remind us that we are both fragile and infinite. Adnan’s philosophy is a beacon to me.
“To write is to see the world anew. To paint is to rearrange its energies. To live is to inhabit the possibility of both.”
She believed that creation is not an individual act but a reordering of energies—a communal offering that draws us closer to what is sacred. Her perspective challenges me to consider how the systems we build, including economic ones, might also rearrange energies, fostering connections rather than exploitation. Adnan’s ideas align with the concept of regenerative economies, which many today see as a way to honor the cyclical and interconnected nature of life. Unlike extractive capitalism, which prioritizes profit and perpetuates inequality, regeneration mirrors the cycles of nature, where nothing is wasted, and everything contributes to the health of the whole.
John Biewen, through his Scene on Radio podcast, offers a sobering examination of capitalism. In Season 7, he and co-host Ellen McGirt, explore how our current systems commodify labor, deepen inequities, and erode community bonds. Their insights push me to dream of alternatives where economic flows don’t just generate wealth for a few but nurture the well-being of many. Adnan’s poetic insistence on interconnectedness feels, to me, like the philosophical heart of such a vision.
I also deeply admire José Mujica, the former president of Uruguay, who lived his politics of humility. Known as “the world’s humblest president,” Mujica’s life is a testimony to intentionality in leadership. He famously rejected the trappings of power, living modestly on a small farm and donating the majority of his salary to social causes. For Mujica, simplicity wasn’t about asceticism—it was about freedom.
“True freedom is to consume less, because consuming less means less dependence on buying, less dependence on selling your time for money, and less dependence on the demands of others.”
This philosophy of intentional simplicity resonates with me, where value is not defined by accumulation but by sustainability and the flow of resources within a shared system. Mujica’s emphasis on living with purpose reminds me that wealth is not inherently tied to material possessions; it is found in relationships, in community, and in the power to direct our lives in alignment with shared values.
But Mujica’s philosophy raises complex questions for me. While I respect his embrace of simplicity, I don’t believe that everyone is meant to live simply. Some thrive in maximalism and abundance, and I value that too. To me, there’s beauty in a bustling, maximalist creative studio just as there’s beauty in the contemplative solitude of a single brushstroke on canvas. Both have their place in a balanced ecosystem of expression. In fact, I have an ongoing practice of manifesting wealth with my dear friend and film/theatre director, Liesl Tommy. What Mujica reminds me of, though, is the importance of intentionality. Whether we live simply or lavishly, the measure lies in how our choices connect us to others and contribute to something greater than ourselves.
Marc Bamuthi Joseph, a friend and a poet/visionary arts leader, reminds me of the labor inherent in dreaming. As Vice President and Artistic Director of Social Impact at the Kennedy Center (still there for the moment!), Joseph has dedicated himself to expanding the arts as a tool for justice. He speaks passionately about what he calls “constructing the dream at scale.” In a stirring address at the NEA Healing, Bridging, Thriving Summit in early 2024, Joseph said:
“Justice itself comes at the steep price of committed energy, time, and self-sacrifice to help assure somebody else’s rights.”
To me, this commitment echoes Adnan’s belief that art is an act of reordering energies. Joseph’s insistence that artists are “avatars of our moral commitment to be better” resonates deeply with my belief that art has the power to reshape society’s most entrenched injustices. His reflections on justice and creativity underscore the vital role of the arts as both mirror and blueprint for systemic transformation. He describes art as a "sacred space" for imagining justice, where the act of creation is not ancillary to social progress but central to it. The arts enable us to see ourselves with clarity while also challenging us to envision new possibilities. Joseph emphasizes that justice requires "committed energy, time, and self-sacrifice"—a labor-intensive process that parallels the artistic act itself. This duality aligns with the broader call to create not just art, but ecosystems that amplify its impact and reach. His vision inspires the reimagining of economic systems where equity, beauty, and shared humanity are not abstract ideals but foundational principles woven into the very fabric of how we live, work and create together.
My own question, then, is not just what we need, but how we might activate these collective ambitions. How do we move from theory to practice, from the hopeful blueprint to the tangible structure that artists and communities can stand upon? This is where the real work lies—bridging the aspirational to the actionable, creating economies that are regenerative, not extractive, and ensuring that artists thrive, carrying the world forward on currents of vision and resilience.
Throughout my career, I have encountered remarkable examples of these principles in action. One such instance is the work of Zoukak Theatre in Beirut, Lebanon where I currently serve as the Chair of the Board of Trustees. Founded in 2006 amidst social and political upheaval, Zoukak embodies the resilience (they hate this word, by the way), creativity, and communal spirit that new economic models for the arts must strive to incorporate. They function not just as a theater group but as a cultural and social collective, dedicated to fostering dialogue, healing, and empowerment through art.
Zoukak's practice is inherently rooted in takaful (تكافل)—the Arabic concept of mutual solidarity. Their approach emphasizes collective effort, both in the creation of their work and in their outreach, which often involves marginalized communities and vulnerable groups. This exemplifies how arts organizations can operate beyond the boundaries of commercial and traditional nonprofit models, prioritizing reciprocal engagement and social impact over profit. Zoukak's work mirrors the essence of waqf (وقف), as they create spaces that serve as cultural endowments to the public. Their performances, workshops, and educational programs are acts of investment in the community's well-being, generating cultural and social wealth that transcends financial metrics. This illustrates that when artists and cultural leaders commit resources to collective good, they contribute to the long-term health and vibrancy of society in a way that traditional funding structures often overlook.
Zoukak’s commitment is not only an artistic stance but an economic one, challenging the conventional reliance on philanthropy by instead building systems based on shared resources and communal participation. They remind us that in a reimagined economy for the arts, sustainability stems from solidarity, community-led governance, and a redefinition of value that includes cultural and emotional capital.
My question is not just about what we need but about the rhythms and movements required to activate these collective ambitions. How do we transcend the fragility of philanthropic dependency and build models where wealth, power, and opportunity are not held in stagnant pools but flow freely, touching every corner of our shared existence? How do we amplify the wisdom of Zoukak, and others across the Two-Thirds World who have shown us that art is not merely a mirror but a tool—a hammer, a bridge, a balm—that builds resilience and sustains resistance in the face of structural neglect?
Within this vision of a reimagined economy and cultural landscape, I find personal resonance in a project I’m in the midst of generating: The Enclave. This new residency program is designed to connect empty spaces with brilliant minds in need of solitude, embodying the principles of what I call “reciprocal philanthropy”. Hosts generously offer their vacation homes, while artists and thinkers bring the gift of creativity and fresh perspectives into these spaces, weaving a cycle of mutual exchange and inspiration. The Enclave is a reflection of the future I want to help build—a future where generosity and creativity intersect, and where abundance flows naturally through systems designed to uplift everyone involved. It envisions a regenerative model, one that shifts away from scarcity thinking and toward structures that honor flexibility, equity, and the transformative power of shared resources. This work is not just about creating opportunities for artists; it is about imagining how we can collectively foster environments where creativity and generosity thrive together.
To reimagine the economy is not just to talk about equity but to make equity a verb. It is, for me, about how we live together in the fullness of our complexities and contradictions. It is about designing systems that honor the sacred connections between us—the unseen threads that bind us across boundaries of geography, language, and histories. It is about creating not only the art that dazzles and challenges but the fertile ground where art—and humanity—can take root, grow wild, and thrive without apology. Adnan’s luminous call to inhabit the possibility of renewal invites us to step into the work with intention and ferocity. It is not a passive dream but an active construction of moral economies, where justice is not an abstract ideal but a daily practice, where beauty is not a privilege but a shared inheritance. What would it look like to build a world where the transformative power of art is as accessible as clean water? Where equity is not transactional but relational, embedded in every interaction, every exchange, every stage, every canvas?
The bold thinking of influential economist Mariana Mazzucato provides a striking lens through which to examine the crisis of valuing creativity. Her call to redefine public value—through investments that prioritize collective well-being over individual profit—invites us to consider a parallel revolution in how we approach the arts. What if, instead of treating creativity as a byproduct of market forces or individual genius, we placed it at the heart of a mission-oriented agenda for society?
This vision is poetic and speculative, but no less urgent: could we reimagine the arts as a “public good,” akin to health or education, and create structures that treat artists not as beneficiaries of charity but as co-creators of societal flourishing? Mazzucato’s work reminds us that economies are not fixed but designed. To nurture a regenerative economy for the arts, we must dare to ask radical questions: What missions can the arts serve in addressing inequities, fostering resilience, or inspiring new ways of being together? And what systems might we create to allow these contributions to thrive?
By grounding this vision in a collective ethos, as Mazzucato suggests, we can begin to dream of an economy that values creativity as essential infrastructure—an investment in the future of humanity. After all, music is as vital to the spirit as roads are to the body; poetry is the waste management system of the soul, turning the refuse of experience into meaning. The arts are the power grids of empathy, the blueprints for a society built on belonging. They do not merely mirror our cities; they imagine them anew, laying foundations for joy where others see empty lots.
The structures we build today will either silence or sing tomorrow. If the arts are to shape the world, then we must first shape a world where they can thrive—not as an afterthought but as the very architecture of a just and regenerative society.
Etel Adnan, Untitled, 2018; Sfeir-Semler Gallery, Beirut, Lebanon
As we return to the question posed at the outset—how we might find a new economic model that bridges the gap between the extractive nature of the commercial sector and the precariousness of the nonprofit structure—it becomes clear that the solution lies in reimagining value itself. What if we measured success not by profit margins or donor appeals, but by the depth of connection, the authenticity of the creative process, and the enduring impact of art on society? Between these two extremes, there exists fertile ground for a regenerative approach—one that honors the artist as a laborer, the audience as a collaborator, and the art itself as a shared resource. By embracing models that center reciprocity, sustainability, and shared stewardship, we can begin to craft a system that reflects the true spirit of creation: one that is iterative, generous, and profoundly human.
Let this be our work—not a faint wish whispered into the void but a symphony of bold action, composed together, one note, one stroke, one step at a time. Let this be our renewal—not only for the artist but for the communities whose lives pulse with their creativity, for our children who will inherit the world we dare to imagine today. This is not just about art. This is about the architecture of belonging, about constructing spaces where justice, equity, and beauty are not distant mountaintops but the ground we walk on every day.
Let this be how we live together.
Let this be how we rise.
