Free Comes with a Price
by Tamara Gilkes
The summer brings warm weather, less clothing and outdoor activities. The summer also brings plenty of free outdoor activities: plays, musical performances and the like. In New York City, for example, Central Park has the Summer Stage, showcasing ballet and other forms of dance as well as musical acts. There is also the famous and popular Shakespeare in the Park and the free Monday night movie in Bryant Park. The Village Voice throws an annual outdoor all-day concert in July, the Siren Music Festival, whose headliners are often an indie kid's dream. (Past acts include the Scissors Sisters and Death Cab for Cutie).
For poor college students with an interest in the arts, these performances can be a blessing. I have frequented many of these free art expressions and in doing so have begun to wonder how I would feel if I had paid for these performances. Would I enjoy them more or less? And how do the artists fare in all of this?
In terms of the artists, it is quite plausible to believe that they would enjoy the performances more if they were paid. Money is a necessity for food, shelter and gluttony and therefore is highly valued. Most people, if asked, would say that they would like to get paid for something that they enjoy anyway; this seems logical, but perhaps these free performances are just as much a gift to the audience as they are for the artist.
It is known that as people are paid for doing something that they enjoy -- be it singing, dancing or pressing a lever in an experiment-- their intrinsic desire to do so lessens as they receive compensation. School children who are rewarded for playing with bright, colorful crayons are less likely to continue playing with them when compared with the children who are simply given the crayons and play with them because they desire to do so. But how does this work for the audience member? Do people get more pleasure from getting a good performance for free, like finding a great piece of clothing on the sales rack?
While studying in London, I was very pleased to find that the museums were completely free of charge. I frequented the British Museum, the Tate Britain and the Tate Modern without ever having to pay a fee (or being guilted into the "suggested donation" price). I swear to this day that those zigzags of paint in the modern art wings looked that much brighter, that much better, that much more genius knowing that I didn't pay a penny to see them.
Monetary payment, however, isn't the only form of payment for a performance. There is also the time and the energy that you put into it. I recently attended a free concert at Studio B in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I had already wanted to see this Brazilian band, and having the letters F-R-E-E directly beneath the event was the cherry on top of this rare performance. The result was me waiting in an hour-long line that wrapped around the block, and then waiting another two-and-a-half hours until the headliners appeared. By the time I saw the band, I was tired and weary-- my feet were aching and my clothes were suffering from flying splashes of beer and vodka.
By that point it would be almost impossible to admit to myself, should the performance have been bad, that it was not worth all of the time and effort. I pumped my fists, shook my booty and clapped to the beat to get every ounce of worth out of that band. Though I refuse to admit that the band was bad (I still believe that they were in fact worth the wait), I realize that I did in fact pay, in time and effort, to see them.
In social science there is a little something called cognitive dissonance that basically states that if we feel a disconnect between the reality of something and our thought process, we will change our thought process to be in alliance. To over simplify it, if you bought something for a lot of money and it was actually really awful, you'll try and find the good in it and convince yourself that you didn't waste your time and money. I see this every time I wait on line for hours for a show or waste time waiting around for the 6 train only to give up and walk the distance. I convinced myself that the band was awesome and that it was a once-in-a-lifetime performance (I swear, it really was!), or that I actually enjoyed waiting down in the station, as I avoided the downpour that surely happened in that time period.
Free art performances are certainly a benefit of the summer, but they also come with a price. Long lines and aching feet are only a few of the downfalls. But in the end do we really care? Does it matter that the only reason I enjoyed that art in the Tate was because I had waited in a line before that? Does it matter that the lead singer was that much better because she took my mind from my pulsing feet and the beads of sweat on my forehead? If anything, it seems like a perfect combination: artists who are performing because they want to be there and an audience ready to enjoy anything that comes its way.
