There was a time in my life when I thought going to Burning Man might be a fun experience. This was a few years ago, and a particular group of my friends in Seattle planned extravagantly for months for the annual arts festival. It was an official holiday of sorts to them, for some the marking of a “new year” even.

I hadn’t given it much thought before, but I remember stopping by a performer friend’s house where seven or eight people from his “camp” were huddled over sewing machines creating elaborate costumes for a dance piece they were planning. This same friend had these animal-human-midsummernights-dreamesque hybrid costume pieces hung all around his house from other arts festivals where he’d participated as an independent performer, stilt-walking or acting as an other-worldly creature.

When I inquired further about what this Burning Man event entailed, the answers varied widely, many were obscure or abstract, or too personal to decrypt. Then I asked how much it would cost if I decided to attend, and my friends cringed. “It’s a little late,” I remember one saying, “You’ll pay around $250.”

Two hundred and fifty dollars was out of my price range then. For another three full years, I considered going; each late summer I’d curiously consider the giant art exhibit in the desert. My roommates urged me to budget for it, buy a ticket early for a cool $180. “I’d love to see what you might write out there,” they’d say.

I remember them returning from their week on the playa, locking themselves into their bedrooms, actually shedding tears about what appeared to be a devastating return to what is widely accepted as modern civilization. Even my therapist at the time looked horrified during our first session after her first trip to Burning Man. “‘Why do we live like this,’ I have to keep asking myself,” I remember her saying.

I had no clue what she was talking about; but coupled with the teary-eyed silence from my roommates, I decided I should try to make the experience happen. Then, suddenly (and possibly from interacting with too many smart, detached hipsters for too long in Los Angeles) I decided Burning Man was a very bad idea and a total waste of money. But is it really a waste? Has it changed over the years? I began hearing that it was actually nothing but a drug-fest, and a chance for a bunch of full-time yuppies in bad rave-wear to go drug-induced spiritual under pretenses that are actually corporately sponsored ventures.

I asked three people with varying levels of event intimacy about the economics of Burning Man. The first is my friend Danielle who worked for the DPW for the past two years. She was actually paid — although very little — to attend the event, and had her housing and food compensated. In return she spent several months in Gerlach and Black Rock City, Nevada, installing art, working as a sort of “city employee” during the event, and participating in playa restoration (removing all human traces from the event site) following the exodus of the Burners. She calls herself the equivalent of a garbage man and says she probably broke even with personal expenses.

The second is a man named Chicken John Rinaldi. He was perhaps one of the original artists participating in what was at one time “…a model for a revolution that no one will allow to occur,” and says he has been studying the event for over a decade.

Call him a burner and “…I’ll punch you in the arm and leave a bruise. I’m not a burner. That term is used for people who wear dumb fake fur and are into the ‘gift economy’ and drink the kool aide and participate in the cult of celebrity. There is another contingent of people who go to BM, and I am part of that larger contingent. We are the people who go to the art festival. WE are the artists. We are not the clueless idiots on E in a cuddle puddle embracing faux spirituality. I read on a bulletin board that there are only ‘30 more dieting days till BM!’ Fucking kill me.”

My third target of inquisition was one of my former Seattle roommates, Eric, a man who primarily goes to look at art, and spends much of his time on his photography while there, but might not turn down a cuddle of one kind or another.

The event is dressed as a kind of vacation from the capitalist, corporate reality, which tends to be the anti-artist. Our consumer-driven culture is often a very difficult, painful place to exist for a person who is creatively motivated. Burning Man is, in theory, the ideal artists’ world. It is supposed to be based upon — outside of travel and basic supplies — a gift economy, where a person offers what they have and are provided for as a result, not by barter, just simple gifting.

But, Burning Man is a corporation. It has a budget (however, transparent), employees, and sponsorship. “The gift economy is total bullshit. It’s just rich people who set aside time to be generous. All the BM ideas are founded in unrestricted generosity,” Chicken John says.

This seems to lend toward an Animal Farm phenomenon occurring within Burning Man. It certainly originated (although it’s exact origin is disputed) as what it remains costumed in, but corporations are like black holes; they ultimately fold into the weight of what they are: dollar signs. Perhaps the corporation will lose the precious art one day; or, on the other hand, perhaps the art will drop the corporation. Their progressing coexistence would be unusual, historically unprecedented even. Chicken John says, “The idea part of BM that is working (the unrestricted generosity) is an SF based thinking tool; it came from the Cacophony Society. And it will continue to work long after they [the corporation] lose the event to their hubris.”

The gift economy seems to be functioning and appreciated by many. Eric, for example, says, “Sure the tickets to the Burn cost something and the gas to drive there, but then it’s free after that; it just takes planning, and the longer ahead you plan it, the cheaper it ends up being…”

When I asked him about commercialization, he said he, “did not get a sense at all that it really was a commercial venture …I did not want to see any beer stages or anything like that. I don’t expect the Burn to happen without some commercialization. Commercialization is fine as long as there is no censorship of people or ideas.”

Danielle agreed, noting that Burning Man is one of the leading private sources of money for artists in the country. “Some are pragmatists,” she says, “and understand that it just takes money. Much of the money goes to artist grants. Those who complain about having to pay for tickets don’t always understand the structure.”

How much does it cost to go? That still depends heavily on the individual. Some volunteer, and reportedly spend no more than they would living a week in San Francisco; and the corporation does offer low-income tickets with a June deadline. Regular ticket prices vary, depending on an attendee’s plan-ahead capabilities. Buy a ticket in advance, and you might pay as little as $195. Buy one today, and you’ll spend $280. Wait until you get to Nevada and pay much more. Employees have even rumored what’s called an “asshole tax,” reporting one ticket sale at $1,000!

Variances on personal spending at the event are even grander. Chicken John says, “I spend …$1,500 at least. I know people who drop $50K…I also know people who scam free tickets and sponge all the way. Spend nothing. It can be done. Whatever. Art installations will always cost more than you can imagine.”

I was hoping to discover while researching this post that Burning Man was actually successful at temporarily stripping away the class system, or maybe creating a different one where the artist sits somewhere closer to zenith. None of my sources fully confirmed this, but they say it’s not as simple or segregated as at home. “Of course. I mean, if you really look. First things first… anyone who can even get there is either smart, wealthy or stupid. We have all 3…” says Chicken.

The crowd remains mixed regardless of the event’s image. Pre-Burn parties nationwide lend toward particular class reputations attending the event, but the actual attendees range from wealthy businessman to small-town DIY anarchist.

The Winnebago’s are a dead class giveaway. Many rental companies won’t rent vehicles to people who plan to drive on the playa, so RV and other luxury vehicle owners tend to stand out. Eric found a creative solution: “…last year I brought a U-Haul trailer that only cost $100.00 for the whole week. It’s great to haul all your crap, and then it doubles as a sleep pod or a place to get away from the dust storms.”

Tents are an old standard. Many returning attendees use the same vehicle year after year. Some are able to rent RV’s. Individuals may fit everything they need into a car. Artists usually bring a collective: several vehicles, several cars. Eric claims the Honda Element is the best vehicle for the playa. There are on-line recipes for low-cost structures as well.

Maybe a few years from now, I’ll decide $195 is a good price for a private party camping trip filled with independent art installations. I don’t know. Now that I know I’ve missed the Revolution, I’m not that interested:

“…get rid of the old thing that doesn’t work, and let go. We all built this thing for that revolution…it’s the same story as what happened to our precious democracy…Burning Man turned into another 10 million dollar business with office politics and everyone hating their boss and stealing pens and paper from “work”, and the product they are offering is just sex and drugs and rock n roll… But in the end, to me, it’s an art festival. They can’t take that away… they will remember the art. The art was the calling card of the revolution. They use it to sell tickets…”

Chicken John Rinaldi