Why Don’t Black People Support Local Artists? I Asked ChatGPT

I asked ChatGPT why Black people don’t tend to support local or independent artists. The question came to me after attending a recent event where I realised just how rare it is for people, myself included, to spend money on smaller, homegrown performances. It made me wonder: why is that? Why do we so readily pay hundreds to see Beyoncé, but hesitate when it’s someone from our own community performing at a local venue?

Chat:
What you’re describing is actually really fascinating — and quite layered. You’re observing how some audiences (often white audiences, in this case) consistently show up for independent artists — gigs, local shows, community arts — while Black audiences tend to engage more online or through mainstream, high-visibility artists, rather than local grassroots art scenes, even when those artists are just as talented.

Let’s unpack a few parts of that psychology:

Cultural conditioning and aspiration
In many Black communities, especially in the UK, there’s been a historical emphasis on making it big — the idea of success being tied to visibility, fame, and financial stability. So people often only pay attention once someone’s “made it”, rather than nurturing and supporting the journey. White audiences, on the other hand, tend to have stronger subcultures built around appreciating process — think indie bands, folk nights, or experimental art. That culture of discovery is ingrained.

Economic and social perception
Supporting independent artists — buying tickets, travelling, donating — requires disposable income and a sense that “this is a valuable use of my leisure time.” For many in our communities, leisure time has been historically tied to survival or church/community obligations, not necessarily self-expression through art.

Representation and relatability
Sometimes, Black audiences don’t feel the same cultural belonging in certain artistic spaces, even if the artists themselves are Black. There’s a subconscious association between certain styles of live music (like house, gospel fusion, indie) and white cultural spaces — even when they were born from Black creativity.

Community behaviour patterns
White fans often build entire identities around supporting artists — they follow them from city to city, buy merch, create Facebook groups. Black fans might celebrate artists differently — through word of mouth, social media, church support, or even private admiration — but that doesn’t always translate to ticket sales or physical attendance.

So what you’re noticing at HGC events isn’t random. It’s a sociocultural pattern: one group has normalised showing up physically for art, while another has internalised the idea that showing up “once it’s big” is the mark of success.

After reading ChatGPT’s response, one particular point stood out to me—the idea that, “for many in our communities, leisure time has been historically tied to survival or community obligations, not necessarily self-expression through art.” That line stayed with me. I wanted to understand it more deeply.

So I asked ChatGPT to explain what it meant by that—why art, in many Black households, has rarely been viewed as leisure or self-expression, and how this mindset developed.

Chat said:
Why our relationship with art has been tied to survival rather than self-expression:

To understand this, we have to go back to the roots of Black experience—colonialism, migration, and the generations of resilience that followed. For centuries, Black creativity existed as a tool of endurance rather than exploration. Music, dance, and storytelling were ways to survive hardship, to preserve memory, to maintain identity in a world that denied it. Art wasn’t something you did for leisure—it was something you did to live.

As time went on, that legacy of survival shaped how we viewed art and leisure. Many Black families passed down the belief that success meant security—a stable job, a good income, education. Creative careers were often dismissed as risky or indulgent. Even when we did create art, it was expected to have a purpose—to uplift, to inspire, to bring pride to the community—not simply to be enjoyed for its own sake.

This mindset also shapes how we consume art. We celebrate artists who have “made it” because their success validates our struggle. It proves that someone from our background can beat the odds. But supporting someone still on the way doesn’t always feel like a priority, because subconsciously, we’ve been taught that art isn’t survival—it’s what you do after you’ve survived.

And then I asked, “So, what can the black community do to change this mindset?”

Shifting this mindset isn’t about blame; it’s about remembering who we really are. Creativity has always been in our DNA — from the rhythms of Africa to the spirituals of the South, from reggae to grime, from jazz to gospel. We’ve never been short on artistry. What’s needed now is a conscious reclaiming of art as something that isn’t separate from success but part of it.

1. Redefine success.
We need to start valuing art that hasn’t yet “made it.” To understand that creativity doesn’t have to be commercial to be worthy. When we buy a ticket to a local show, we’re not just supporting an artist — we’re helping rewrite what success looks like for our community.

2. Build new rituals around creativity.
We already gather for worship, for food, for family — imagine if we also gathered for art. If seeing a local play, attending an open mic, or streaming a friend’s EP became a regular thing. That kind of cultural shift happens when people make it normal to show up for one another.

3. Heal the collective story.
For generations, art was a luxury we couldn’t afford — survival came first. But that story is changing. We can afford to celebrate, to explore, to express. The more we engage with creativity, the more we remind ourselves that we are no longer only surviving. We are thriving.

4. Pass it down.
Our children need to see us appreciating art in all its forms — not just celebrity success. Let them see us excited about a small gig, a local film, a new designer. That’s how we rebuild a culture that honours its artists from the ground up.

Closing reflection:
Maybe the real shift happens when we stop waiting for permission — to create, to enjoy, to support. When we see art not as a luxury, but as a way of life. Because for us, it always has been. We just forgot.

At the heart of it all, it’s about ownership — about writing our own stories through every form of art we create and support. When we show up for the music, the film, the fashion, the words that come from us, we’re not just celebrating creativity — we’re preserving culture. We make it harder to steal, harder to water down, harder to forget. Because when something is born from us and backed by us, it becomes undeniably ours. And that’s where the real power lies in recognising our worth and history through the art we create.