Our conversation with choreographer and director Kitty McNamee is a masterclass in how an arts career actually gets built: through access, timing, community, and a willingness to make your own opportunities. She describes growing up in a small town in Ohio where movie musicals were her main window into dance, then seeing a touring performance that felt like a “bolt of lightning.” That moment highlights a core arts entrepreneurship truth: talent is everywhere, but access is not. When artists finally encounter live work, mentors, training, or a pathway into the field, the entire trajectory can change, even if they start “late” by industry standards. 

Kitty’s story also shows how creative momentum can be engineered. With only a short time of formal training, she auditions for a performing arts high school in Houston, gets in, and keeps moving forward through college, New York, and eventually Los Angeles. In LA she realizes performance isn’t the right fit, but choreographing for theater is. That pivot becomes the bridge from employee mindset to creator mindset: choreographing leads to producing, and producing leads to authorship. Her decision to go to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival forces an entrepreneurial leap, because participation requires a company, so she forms one. Hysterica Dance Company becomes a DIY engine where she casts, produces, markets, coordinates, and learns the full value chain of making art work. 

A major theme is how creative work is hired and sustained over decades. Kitty explains that much of her choreography work now comes from return clients and long-term relationships, including major institutions like LA Opera and the LA Philharmonic. For working artists, this is career stability: word of mouth, trust, and a reputation for professionalism. She also notes the shift in how commercial choreography gets sourced. Where agents once controlled most access to gigs, social media and direct outreach increasingly connect producers to artists, though agents still matter for negotiations, contracts, and making sure artists get paid, especially when projects have loose controls or higher risk. 

The most practical segment for dancers and creative entrepreneurs is the discussion of contracts, copyright, and ownership. Kitty lays out the reality that most choreography is “work for hire,” meaning the organization often owns what the choreographer creates. She connects this to union protection through groups like SDC for theater, and AGMA for opera, and explains why residuals and royalties can be uneven across film, TV, and stage. A striking detail is how choreographers have historically been under-credited, even in industry databases, and why credit and classification matter for leverage. She closes by contrasting audience expectations: opera and symphony work are guided by story, music, and institution, while dance film and independent work offer full creative control with higher risk, reminding artists that freedom, money, and ownership rarely arrive in the same package.
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Kitty’s story also shows how creative momentum can be engineered. With only a short time of formal training, she auditions for a performing arts high school in Houston, gets in, and keeps moving forward through college, New York, and eventually Los Angeles. In LA she realizes performance isn’t the right fit, but choreographing for theater is. That pivot becomes the bridge from employee mindset to creator mindset: choreographing leads to producing, and producing leads to authorship. Her decision to go to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival forces an entrepreneurial leap, because participation requires a company, so she forms one. Hysterica Dance Company becomes a DIY engine where she casts, produces, markets, coordinates, and learns the full value chain of making art work. 

A major theme is how creative work is hired and sustained over decades. Kitty explains that much of her choreography work now comes from return clients and long-term relationships, including major institutions like LA Opera and the LA Philharmonic. For working artists, this is career stability: word of mouth, trust, and a reputation for professionalism. She also notes the shift in how commercial choreography gets sourced. Where agents once controlled most access to gigs, social media and direct outreach increasingly connect producers to artists, though agents still matter for negotiations, contracts, and making sure artists get paid, especially when projects have loose controls or higher risk. 

The most practical segment for dancers and creative entrepreneurs is the discussion of contracts, copyright, and ownership. Kitty lays out the reality that most choreography is “work for hire,” meaning the organization often owns what the choreographer creates. She connects this to union protection through groups like SDC for theater, and AGMA for opera, and explains why residuals and royalties can be uneven across film, TV, and stage. A striking detail is how choreographers have historically been under-credited, even in industry databases, and why credit and classification matter for leverage. She closes by contrasting audience expectations: opera and symphony work are guided by story, music, and institution, while dance film and independent work offer full creative control with higher risk, reminding artists that freedom, money, and ownership rarely arrive in the same package. 

​Rich Simmons’ story is a masterclass in arts entrepreneurship, not because it’s flashy, but because it’s built on repeatable choices. He starts as a self-taught artist drawn to London street art for its accessibility and storytelling power. Instead of waiting for permission from galleries or art schools, he studies how stencils work, practices through trial and error, and treats creative output like a craft you can engineer. That mindset matters for any creative business: skills compound when you show up daily, stay curious, and keep testing what works in the real world.

A key turning point comes when he fuses cultural symbols into a piece the public cannot ignore: Will and Kate styled as the Sex Pistols, placed at a high-traffic location and timed around the royal wedding. The lesson is not “get lucky,” but “design for attention.” He uses PR outreach, social media momentum, and a network of people who understand media to create a moment that journalists can cover. For artists asking about marketing for artists and personal branding, he shows that distribution is part of the artwork, and location, timing, and clarity of message can matter as much as paint.

Being a self-taught artist gives him freedom and friction. Freedom shows up as rule-breaking and confidence that “anything is possible,” which helps him build a distinctive pop punk art lane blending street art and pop art. Friction shows up as expensive mistakes: shipping work internationally, learning that some galleries reject resin finishes, and discovering that different markets prefer different colors and products. The entrepreneurship takeaway is market research with humility. Every creative brand needs feedback loops, local context, and a willingness to remake work when the audience signals a mismatch.

Under the visuals is a deeper engine: storytelling. Rich talks about learning composition and structure from figures like Da Vinci and connecting street art to ancient techniques, from chalk transfer methods to cave stencils. The broader idea is that creativity is a human technology for passing lessons forward. For modern creators, storytelling improves everything: your portfolio, your artist statement, your social posts, your pitch to galleries, and your ability to build community. If no one hears the story, even great work stays invisible, so communication becomes a core professional skill.

The most urgent theme is mental health advocacy through “Art Is the Cure.” Rich describes how creativity helped him process bullying, a broken home, and later understanding he is on the autism spectrum. He frames art therapy as a practical equation: pain plus creativity equals art therapy, whether that creativity is painting, writing, skateboarding, or music. His message lowers the barrier to entry: a box of crayons and a page can be enough, and the goal is release, not perfection. He connects this to education and to building Create Scene, a social network for creatives, aiming to give others the roadmap and community he did not have.

The conversation with scenic designer Larry Heyman opens on a familiar origin story that becomes anything but typical. He grew up as a theater kid who found a home backstage, drawn to the breadth of roles that make performance possible. That early access to a radio station, a TV studio, and a full theater program taught him how many doors the arts can open if you keep your curiosity active. Decades later, he still chooses projects with a blend of practical math and artistic urge: income and time realities, yes, but also a pull toward forms that expand the designer’s canvas. Opera, for instance, gives him the freedom to focus on voice and drama while reshaping place and time, which becomes a license to invent worlds that suit the story without being trapped by literal settings.

That passion for bending space flows into his obsession with “liminal” environments, the almost-real zones we see in striking streaming visuals and site-specific theater. He imagines Shakespeare in a warehouse, where the scenery grounds emotion more than geography. Alongside these conceptual interests, Larry keeps a shortlist of dream titles—Our Town and A Christmas Carol—because they offer both iconic resonance and space for a fresh visual signature. He wants to swap the tired ladder gags for windows that feel inevitable and cinematic, and lean into A Christmas Carol as a ghost story with fog, shadow, and memory. These ambitions mirror a designer’s real career calculus: chase the shows that feed your imagination, but also embrace the gigs that fund the craft so you can take bigger swings later.

His method is concrete, almost ritual. Larry reads a script five times before a single meeting. The first pass is like an audience member, no notes, just pacing and feel. The second and third reads mark details and action, while deliberately ignoring stage directions that often record one production’s choices rather than the playwright’s intent. The fourth read becomes a needs list—where people sit, what doors exist, how traffic flows—so nothing surprises the crew. The fifth pass happens after sketches and a chat with the director, who may cancel elements ruthlessly, forcing clarity. He layers in art history and regional references too; Thomas Hart Benton’s undulating Americana fueled his approach to Carlisle Floyd’s Susanna, embedding period feel without cliché. For him, design is a noun and a verb, world-building that lives only as long as the play does.

The business side is equally deliberate. Union membership, via IATSE and United Scenic Artists Local 829, is a stamp of professional credibility and a safety net. It sets minimum fees, reimburses model and material costs, enforces travel and housing expectations, and guards against exploitative scheduling through day minimums and overtime rules. Those protections matter on film sets and in theaters, where budgets can tempt corner cutting. Larry shares candid stories of eight-hour minimums, hazard pay, and the quiet power of a Teamster insisting on a break, illustrating how union culture preserves health and dignity while still allowing productions to get the work done. He notes the path into locals varies by city, but apprenticeships, day-count thresholds, and organizing drives all provide entry points and long-term benefits like retirement and health plans.

Career durability also comes from range. Larry’s pivot into commercial and trade show work began with relationships and a willingness to solve problems without ego. A friend from the La Jolla Playhouse moved into corporate events and brought him in to build a hospital wing inside a convention center for a pharmaceutical launch. The budgets were strong, the logistics complex, and the creative stakes real. That credibility with budgets, work lists, and crew leadership became a second engine for his practice, one that funds riskier artistic choices in opera and theater. He’s seen peers parlay stagecraft into visual merchandising, food startups, and mobile retail—proof that design thinking transfers across industries. His advice is steady: keep friends, keep learning, and do not sneer at the gigs that pay, because they often pay for the art that moves you the most

​Creative careers rarely follow a straight line, and Dan Gorman’s path proves how range, restraint, and relationships can compound over time. He blends licensed franchise work with community building, from sketch cards for global brands to co-founding a collaborative studio that funnels opportunities to rising artists. The tension is familiar: start a studio to make your own work, then get pulled into client demand because your name is the draw. Dan frames that as a solvable operations problem rather than a creative crisis. Structure the pipeline, set expectations, and decide early when you are the talent and when you are the producer. That clarity prevents burnout and keeps the mission intact: make good work, help people, and keep momentum.

One thread runs through the episode: avoid accidental partnerships. Too many artists promise ownership instead of payment, then face legal and emotional fallout if the project takes off. Dan urges creators to ask for cash when possible, and if equity is offered, understand the risk, the timeline, and the paperwork. He’s candid about taxes and the complexity of having multiple LLCs. A separate entity can protect you, but it also multiplies filings and fees. The fix is pragmatic: get an accountant, choose contractor agreements over ownership when the fit is unclear, and document roles, IP, and revenue splits before the first file is shared. You don’t need to be a lawyer to stay safe; you need boundaries, plain language, and signatures.

The studio model comes alive when he describes delegation and teaching. Route 8 Studios pairs lead illustrators with a bullpen of affiliated artists and interns, creating a classic comics pipeline of pencils, inks, and colors. This accelerates delivery for clients who specifically want him or his partner while giving students real deadlines and portfolio credits. The payoff is more than throughput. It builds local capacity, spreads risk, and makes the brand bigger than any single person. Still, he admits demand can bend the original mission. When that happens, he routes projects to the team unless a client insists on his hand. It’s a humane approach to growth: honor your name while opening doors for others.

Money talk is refreshingly specific. Rates vary by industry norms, but he adapts to client budgets and sometimes uses crowdfunding to finance production. The goal of the studio isn’t to squeeze every dollar; it’s to launch viable projects, build trust, and create recurring work. That mindset pairs well with his advice on conferences. Too many artists judge a con by table sales. Dan treats cons as marketing and network-building. He measures success by people met, relationships deepened, and follow-up that leads to real paid gigs months later. He misses sales by walking the floor, but lands opportunities by being present where decisions happen. Patience and proximity beat quick wins.

His Comic-Con organizer hat reveals the operational grind most attendees never see: year-round planning, negotiating hotels and venues, booking guests through agents, managing 140 vendors, and sometimes ejecting bad actors. Success only creates more work, he warns, which is why clarity about goals matters. Adding a horror show and mall series grew the brand but also the pressure. The lesson translates to solo creators too. Growth is a commitment, not an escape. Choose the stress that pays off in learning, community, or sustainable revenue. If the stress drains your health and soul, step back and renegotiate the terms.

Dan’s closing mindset tips anchor the episode. Don’t overjudge your work; the market will surprise you. Publish, learn, and iterate. Support small and local businesses because they hire artists for design, signage, and merch, injecting money into the creative economy. And most of all, trust your gut with contracts and collaborators. If it feels off, pause. The quickest way out of a bad deal is never entering it. If you’re already in, the only way out is through—deliver, learn, and set a higher bar next time. That’s how creative careers get sturdier: one honest decision at a time.