'Hello. My name is Shaun Finnie and I’m an author.’ That introduction was part pride, part guilty admittance and wholly necessary. But it was my next sentence that was really scary. ‘I’d like to register as being self employed please.’ There we go, It’s official. I now make my living primarily as a writer and I pay my taxes as such. So in buying some of my work you’ll ultimately help some poor but talented child attain his dream of a university degree, or maybe ease the pain of a kindly old lady in a hospital bed in Nuneaton. Or contribute to decimating a sandy bit of Asia that you can’t find on a map. Sadly you don’t get to choose.
But – working under the foolish assumption that my work has some artistic merit – how can they tax ‘art’? How can they put a price on the joy, revulsion or any other emotional reaction that a good artwork might evoke?
If it’s on the price that the artist sells it for then Van
Gough’s work is worthless, as he was only paid for one piece during his entire
life. I’ve managed more than that: does that make me a ‘better’ artist than
dear old deaf ‘n’ dead Vinny?
Or maybe it’s on the perceived amount of pleasure that the
artist’s body of work brings to the masses? If that’s the case then the
collected music of Sir Paul McCartney would result in him being taxed at about
90% of his earnings I’d guess, whereas a more controversial figure such as
Tracey Emin might see her income tax rate drop to a negligibly low figure, 4%
or so.
As for my writing? Well if it’s on the amount of happiness
that I give to a buying public then I suspect that I’d be in line for a tax
rebate. But just think: when the country’s collective chest swells with
national pride at the start of the London Olympics I’ll be able to humbly claim
that the tax pennies obtained from my writing has contributed towards their
success in some tiny way. Probably a bolt underneath plastic seat number 148F.
So how come I still couldn’t get any tickets?
© Shaun Finnie 2012
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