Yesterday’s flare-up was over economics, –started by hours in the darkroom printing copies of a drawing for which I am to receive less than a carpenter would ask for his time. I did not need to take this job: but I needed the money — I have no one to blame but myself. I made my own bed. I could have been well-to-do — if not rich — by this time, if I had taken advantage of all the publicity I have had these years past, — if I had thought in terms of money instead of my work. I really have just what I deserve, or wanted: a bare living and plenty of time for my work. But I should be getting more than a bare living, and yet have time for myself. When I work for others I should be paid more. How to achieve this I know: go to a big city, get a manager, open a studio, — well-located, do the society stunt, become fashionable — I could make good, I have the personality, and know how to deliver the goods. I could have been a good businessman: making money is thinking in terms of money. Maybe if I would put all else from mind but money for a few years I could gather together a modest sum, and quit. But those precious years! If I was only clever enough to figure out an easy way to extract the public’s nickels, dimes, dollars — a patent medicine, a catchy song, — which reminds me of one I started, and Johan was to set to music, called –“I’m never so homesick as when I’m at home.” Just so, do some become rich!
From the Daybooks of Edward Weston, Two Volumes in One, Mexico & California, page 165.