We carry in our collective imagination a romantic image of the island artist: the painter before an easel in a weather-beaten cottage on the Atlantic edge; the Orkney weaver working as the light shifts across Hoy; the Shetland fiddler drawing inspiration from the sea’s roar and lull. This is not fiction. These landscapes do sustain extraordinary creativity.
Yet when I undertook formal research into the creative economies of the Outer Hebrides, Orkney, and Shetland, a very different picture began to emerge. It was still beautiful—but it was far more complex, more resourceful, and far more precarious than the postcard myth allows.
This research, the Pan-Island Survey of the Creative Economy, was commissioned to inform the Islands Growth Deal’s “creative islands wellbeing” proposal. It sought to provide the detailed data that policymakers lacked: Who are the creative practitioners of the Northern and Western Isles? What do they contribute? What do they need? And how are they surviving the intersecting pressures of island life, global upheaval, and sectoral change?
Over a short three-week period in summer 2021, 138 practitioners—from emerging graduates to established artists, musicians, writers, designers, filmmakers, teachers, and craftspeople—shared their realities with striking candour. Geographically, the cohort leaned toward the Outer Hebrides (67.7%), with 20.5% from Orkney and 12.9% from Shetland. The project’s aim was not to judge creativity, but to illuminate the conditions under which it is nurtured—or undermined.
What follows is an account of what the research revealed: a portrait of creative life in the islands, full of unexpected nuance, quiet determination, and clear warnings for the future.
Island Identity: Between Roots and Routes
One of the earliest questions in the survey asked how long practitioners had lived on their island. The result challenged assumptions: most were incomers, with only 18.7% having lived on their island all their lives. Yet longevity did not correlate neatly with belonging. When asked whether they considered themselves “islanders,” two-thirds said yes.
This was not an empty label. Their explanations described a profound sense of chosen affiliation:
“An adopted islander, yes.”
“Living, working and being committed to the place in which I now live.”
“As an asthmatic I can breathe here.”
For some, ancestry granted identity—Mackenzie roots stretching back to 1609; for others, belonging was defined by participation, community, rhythm, and the sea itself: “I am surrounded by a sea that is beautiful yet unpredictable.”
But identity carried tensions as well. Some practitioners described communities as welcoming and tightly connected. Others spoke of inwardness, cliquishness, or a sense that creative work was judged through the lens of “proper Orcadians” versus incomers. One writer was warned at the outset that their “greatest obstacles will be the self-appointed guardians of local culture”—a caution that proved true in practice.
Language stood at the centre of this identity. Among 130 respondents, only 50 said language was not involved in their work. Gaelic, Shaetlan, and Orcadian dialect infused creative practices across disciplines—from bilingual storytelling festivals to Gaelic-led visual arts, from music rooted in dialect teaching to artists keen to learn Gaelic as an ethical engagement with place. As one put it, “I see the world through a Gaelic lens… it is integral to all that I do.”
Island identity, then, was not a matter of birth alone, nor was it simply romantic attachment. It was a rich interplay of place, ancestry, commitment, language, and environment—an identity chosen as much as inherited.
Why They Come—and Why They Stay
When asked about the positives of island life, the responses overflowed. Practitioners spoke of “raw beauty,” “on-your-doorstep wilderness,” “soul-reaching oneness,” and communities where people still know one another, where volunteering is instinctive, and where it feels possible to contribute meaningfully to the common good. Some found solace after stressful mainland careers; others found space, clarity, or the ability to breathe.
For many, wellbeing was central to their choice of home. This was not an abstract therapeutic concept, but a lived one: the ability to walk from one’s door into machair or moorland, to hear waves instead of traffic, to work with fewer interruptions and more intention. The landscape was grounding; the slower pace nourishing.
Yet every glow had its shadow. When asked about the negatives, respondents listed much of what one might expect—high transport costs, expensive shipping, poor connectivity—but also deeper structural concerns: underdeveloped artistic infrastructure, limited peer networks in some areas, lack of access to specialist facilities, and a societal tendency to value mainland practitioners above local ones.
Housing emerged as a crisis so severe that it threatened the very viability of creative life.
A Housing and Workspace Emergency
When asked whether there was enough suitable living accommodation to support emerging practitioners, the answer was nearly unanimous:
No. Absolutely not.
The stories that followed were troubling:
A respondent “homeless and workshopless,” renting a room and waiting ten months for a property to appear.
Houses “snapped up by people with money from the south,” pricing out creatives and young islanders alike.
One person who arrived intending to buy a modest home and set up a studio—dreams extinguished as prices surged post-COVID.
Workspace shortages were just as acute. Most practitioners worked from “a very small garage,” a loom shed, a tiny room, a byre, or a corner of their kitchen table. Spaces were often unheated, windowless, or unsuited to year-round work. A ceramicist needed a messy studio but worked in a garden shed; a printmaker needed facilities only available in mainland cities; a musician struggled without rehearsal space; a stone-carving couple carved from home while preparing for the birth of a child: “This is not ideal.”
This was not about luxury. It was about safety, professional viability, and dignity.
Practitioners dreamed of:
Light-industrial units
Shared hubs
WASPS-style studios
A proper printmaking workshop
Affordable, bookable spaces
Conversion of unused schools into creative centres
Mixed-use venues with teaching rooms, galleries, and studios
Better-designed spaces to support creative ageing
One spoke of transforming the old Scalpay School into a collective centre of making, selling, teaching, and community support—“very much a dream,” but one that captured the spirit of many.
A Highly Educated, Under-Paid Creative Workforce
Of the 132 respondents who answered, only 26 lacked an art-school or university qualification. Many held multiple degrees in diverse fields—fine art, product design, teaching, Gaelic arts, architecture, biochemistry, landscape architecture, community education. Their skills were extensive, their training rigorous.
Yet income told a different story:
51.9% earned up to £10,000 annually from their practice.
17.8% earned £10,000–£25,000.
Only 11.6% earned above £25,000, the Scottish average salary.
To survive, many worked multiple jobs or built hybrid livelihoods:
Crofter, carer, retained firefighter
Lecturer, dry-stone dyker, software developer
Project manager, journalist, tour guide, language tutor
The “portfolio career” was not a creative choice but a necessity.
As one wrote:
“You have to be prepared to work twice as hard for twice as less.”
Another described feeling trapped between providing for their family and investing in their practice: “Part-time work isn’t enough to make it happen on our own.”
This constant juggling chipped away at time, energy, and ambition.
Professional Practice and the Lack of Infrastructure
The research revealed a world of creative practice far broader than the typical stereotypes. Island practitioners worked in:
Design (39)
Fine art (62)
Music (66)
Creative writing (36)
Theatre (10)
Participatory arts (13)
Moving image (13)
…and in smaller numbers: ceramics, weaving, knitting, architecture, jewellery, film, sculpture, illustration, textiles, and even fly-tying.
Yet access to facilities lagged far behind the ambition and diversity of the workforce.
Only 11 respondents had a physical gallery or shop. Many sold work online, but broadband remained unreliable in some areas—one musician joked that uploading a video took “three days.” Shipping costs often made exhibitions financially unviable.
Relationships with RFOs (Regularly Funded Organisations) were mixed. Some praised them; others felt they did not understand or support practitioners’ needs, especially outside major island hubs. Calls for better equipment, shared studio provision, meaningful professional development, and more equitable promotion were common.
Networking was uneven. Some felt deeply connected; others isolated. Many had links through friendships rather than formal structures. COVID exacerbated this sense of fragmentation.
What Creatives Contribute to Island Life
Despite precariousness, respondents saw their contribution to island life as substantial, often profound.
They spoke of:
Expanding horizons and stimulating curiosity.
Offering opportunities for collaboration, experimentation, and expression.
Supporting youth development through education and participatory arts.
Complementing industries dominated by oil, fish, wind, or agriculture.
Strengthening community identity and continuity.
Enriching island culture and global visibility.
“Creativity,” one wrote, “is fundamental to the human experience. We are lessened in its absence.”
Another framed the role of creatives in civic rather than decorative terms:
“Creatives provide much-needed grit to the oyster…
They provoke and question. They offer the shades of grey we might otherwise refuse to see.”
The arts, in other words, were not merely embellishments to island life. They were part of the machinery of resilience.
A Triple Shock: Brexit, Covid, Climate
The research took place at a moment of colliding challenges.
Brexit
Complicated exports and increased paperwork.
Forced some to stop EU orders entirely.
Dramatically raised shipping costs.
Limited opportunities for musicians and performers.
Constrained access to materials and markets.
Covid-19
Removed face-to-face sales overnight.
Devastated tourism-dependent income streams.
Forced some into pandemic response jobs simply to survive.
Made professional development and networking difficult.
Forced practitioners online despite patchy digital infrastructure.
Climate Change
Threatened homes, coastlines, and transport links.
Affected materials (humidity, mould, weather damage).
Influenced practice, themes, and urgency of work.
Catalysed sustainability efforts, from croft-based textile production to tree planting and localised supply chains.
As one respondent put it starkly:
“No island, no community, no culture.”
Ambition, Frustration, and Clear Visions for the Future
Despite their challenges, island creatives were not short of ambition. Many wanted to:
Build sustainable businesses.
Collaborate with other practitioners.
Run studios, workshops, or arts hubs.
Expand into film, design, performance, or teaching.
Contribute to education and youth development.
Strengthen Gaelic visual arts.
Support creative ageing and intergenerational practice.
They offered practical solutions too:
Affordable, shared creative hubs
Proper printmaking, photography, and specialist facilities
Light-industrial units
Community-led gallery spaces
Subsidised residencies and visiting-artist accommodation
Marketing and digital training
Fairer promotion by RFOs
Subsidised transport for shipping work
Culture-driven tourism contributions, including a proposed “campervan tax”
These were not complaints. They were blueprints.
What This All Means: Seeing the Reality Behind the Postcard
The creative economy of the Western and Northern Isles is not a peripheral curiosity. It is a vital, expanding, and deeply interwoven part of island life—economically, socially, culturally, and spiritually. It sustains tourism, education, health, and community wellbeing. It channels heritage, language, and identity. It brings global attention to remote places. It offers beauty, reflection, challenge, and meaning.
But it is precarious. And it is at risk.
Its practitioners are highly educated, highly skilled, and deeply committed. Yet too many are underpaid, under-supported, and under-housed. Too many work in unsuitable spaces. Too many must fight logistical obstacles that mainland counterparts barely perceive. Too many struggle to be heard by institutions meant to serve them.
If we truly value the creative richness of island life—if we want future generations to inherit not just beautiful landscapes but vibrant cultures—then we must look past the postcard.
We must support the infrastructure of creativity:
housing, workspace, connectivity, training, fair promotion, financial stability, and accessible facilities.
Behind every windswept studio and every luminous piece of island art is a person navigating difficult obstacles, holding their community’s cultural life together with both hands.
They deserve not only admiration, but investment.
Only then can the islands remain not just places of inspiration, but places where creative lives are possible.
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