What makes the production of my work so expensive? The whole

Hearken to the voice of Barbara Kruger, artist and truth-teller, who revealed with frankness the burden behind her art: “What makes the production of my work so expensive? The whole installation thing—the construction, the objects, the technology. It really adds up.” At first, these words may sound merely practical, a calculation of materials and costs. Yet beneath them lies a deeper reflection on the weight of creation itself. For all true works, whether of art, literature, or invention, are not born cheaply. They demand sacrifice, not only of coin but of time, spirit, and labor.

When Kruger speaks of installation, she points to the vastness of her craft. Hers is not the simple brushstroke upon canvas, nor the lone pen scratching paper. Her works consume spaces, transform walls, challenge the senses. They demand construction, the shaping of structures, the moving of matter, the bending of reality to convey an idea. They require objects, each chosen with care, each infused with meaning, serving as vessels of the message. And above all, they harness technology, the tools of the modern age that magnify her voice so that the public cannot ignore it. In this way, the expense is not waste—it is the tangible evidence of a vision brought into flesh.

Consider the builders of the Parthenon in ancient Athens. Did the temple rise cheaply? Nay, it consumed mountains of marble, endless hours of labor, and the genius of sculptors and architects. It was a monument not only of faith but of expenditure. Yet its beauty endures, and its voice still echoes across millennia. So too with Kruger’s installations. The cost is not merely financial—it is the weight of striving to create something that outlives the fleeting moment, something that seizes the eyes and the soul of all who behold it.

But her words also carry a warning. For in every great act of creation, the laborer must balance the scales. The artist who pours endlessly into objects and technology may find themselves burdened, their spirit wearied, their purse depleted. Even Michelangelo, carving David from stone, groaned under the debts and demands of patrons, for greatness is never without its toll. Thus, Kruger speaks not only to the material burden of her art, but to the universal truth: creation always “adds up,” and the creator must carry its weight with endurance.

And yet, there is no cause for despair in her lament. Rather, it is a call to courage. For those who would create, let them not shrink from the expense, whether measured in coin, sweat, or soul. Great works are not birthed from thrift alone, but from the willingness to spend deeply—sometimes recklessly—in pursuit of truth. Just as a seed demands the richness of the earth and the rains of the sky to become a tree, so too does vision demand nourishment, even at great cost.

The lesson is clear: do not mistake the burden of creation for its futility. The construction of dreams will weigh upon you. The objects you need will seem endless. The technology will consume resources. Yet if your purpose is true, these costs are but the price of planting a legacy. Like the ancients who built monuments, or the artists who painted chapels, or the inventors who burned through fortunes to give the world light, the creator must give much to receive much.

Therefore, let each listener act with both wisdom and bravery. Do not fear the tally of effort, but measure it carefully. Seek allies, patrons, and supporters when the burden grows heavy. Accept that your work, like Kruger’s, will “add up,” but know also that what you build may echo far beyond the sum of its cost. For in the end, the weight of creation is not a chain, but a crown, worn by those who dare to bring into being what did not exist before.