"Eulogies for the creative class are premature. Art workers can organize—and survive." I studied to be a painter in college and had what I now know is a pretty common experience. My fellow students and I produced dumpster loads of bad art, debated theory that was nearly 20 years out of date, and never really spoke about how we planned to make a living once this idyll of calm had passed and the bills started coming due. When I moved to New York City almost a decade ago, I found a job cooking, as I figured I would. I had only ever held service jobs, going on the assumption that waged labor was completely separate from the individualistic and lonely practice of painting. But soon I happened into work installing art at a museum. I quickly found this was much better than a job at a restaurant. For one thing, I actually had something in common with my coworkers, because they were almost all working artists: sculptors, writers, musicians, painters, and designers. All day we installed art, worked with artists, trucked crates around the city, and did light construction. We were mostly freelance or temporary employees, but there was plenty of work.