Sold 60 seats at $20. Here's what changed everything.
When I was 12 in Japan, I decided I would work with Cirque du Soleil. It felt impossible. No network. No path. But years later I made it to Montreal, and since 2009, we started our company and have been working behind the scenes—helping facilitate productions between East and West. Tokyo 2020 Ceremonies. Star Wars Identities. X Games. Creating opportunities for international and Japanese clients Then COVID hit. Around that time we met Mizuki, a Japanese aerial circus artist. Like many performers, all her casting opportunities suddenly disappeared. She was doing everything she had been told would “build an audience”—YouTube, Instagram, TikTok. At the same time, all our projects had stopped too. So we started experimenting. Serge always says something that stuck with me: People are more curious about backstage than the VIP lounge. What if artists shared the process, not just the final show? Not polished promo clips—but training, thinking, rehearsing, wandering through the city. At the time, Airbnb had just launched Online Experiences, so we tested a similar idea for performing artists. We organized a simple one-hour Zoom session. Mizuki showed how she trains, demonstrated a piece she was working on, and answered questions. We sold 60 seats at $20. Here’s the surprising part: Mizuki had 95,800 Instagram followers. We didn’t use any of them. Those 60 seats came from our existing network—friends, colleagues, people who already trusted us. And the energy in that room was completely different. People didn’t just watch. They asked questions. They stayed. They wanted more. That’s when something clicked for me. For a long time, we’ve treated the show as the product. But what people really want is to be part of the creation. The community isn’t just a marketing channel. The community is the work. Today we are building Attractr because I’m still trying to understand how this should work for our field. What challenges are you facing? What actually helps you build a real relationship with your audience? If you’ve ever felt stuck between artistic integrity and financial survival, or been told you need a massive audience before anything is possible — you’re not alone. Let’s figure this out together. A full manifesto: If you work in performing arts, do not waste the next 2-3 years waiting for the old model to save you. 👇 Tell me your story in the comments.
I need to innovate
I’m looking forward to innovating not only in my creative work, but also in how I connect with my audience on social media. My goal is to deepen that relationship by: Gathering their feedback Making them feel part of the project Guiding them toward experiencing the show live
What If You Built an Expert You Don't Have?
The Administrative Minimalist Series No.1 The modern creator is drowning in "Administrative Debt." In 2024, 47% of workers reported burnout. In creative industries, that number hits 60%. But we aren't burning out from the work. We’re burning out from the maintenance of the work. For performing arts leaders, the weight isn’t the rehearsal room. It’s the inbox. The grant portals. The compliance tracking. The "costume changes" required to fit into rigid funding categories. The Funding Floor is Shifting. During the pandemic, the gates were open. Now, they are narrowing. Grants are being revoked. Eligibility bars are rising. The system assumes you have a full-time grants manager. Most of us don't. I’m currently facing this wall with my company, Akuntsu. We are a service company that start developing a platform - Attractr. A cultural platform. Navigating this requires an expert we can't afford ($250/hr). As a Japanese founder in Montreal, I’m not just learning a program. I’m decoding a cultural framework in two languages. The mental load is unsustainable. The Reframe: Build the Expert You Don't Have. The old way: Drown in portals or go broke hiring consultants. The new way: Build a digital infrastructure that holds your context. I am building a Real-Time AI Grant Agent. Not a bot that "hallucinates" applications. A system that: Scouts: Filters global databases against our specific DNA. Drafts: Scaffolds applications using our mission and past data. Tracks: Manages deadlines and financial reporting in the background. The Administrative Minimalist Ethos I am building this in public. Not as a "finished product," but as a working practice. AI is not a substitute for your creativity. It is the collaborator that handles the repetitive, analytical sludge so you can return to the work that matters. The grant portal doesn't deserve your genius. The rehearsal room does. I’m curious about your "Wall." What is the one administrative task stealing your focus? Grant research? Financial tracking? Reporting? Drop it in the comments or join the Workflow Wins section in the forum. I’ll be sharing the full tool stack and architecture in Part 2. Follow along to see what works (and what breaks).
The invisible wall: What happens after the curtain drops?
Coming from the world of music and digital media, I absolutely love and frequently attend performing arts shows, ranging from contemporary dance and theater to modern circus. Recently, I watched an incredible local independent production. The performers gave 150% on stage, the execution was flawless, and the level of skill and passion completely blew me away. But while sitting there, I noticed two things that have been on my mind ever since as an audience member: First, the room was half-empty, and the few people who did show up were mostly other artists, family, and friends of the company. I felt that familiar echo-chamber effect again, where "artists are creating work for other artists," while the broader audience has no idea the show even exists. Second, as soon as the show ended, the applause faded, the lights came up, and people simply went home. There was no bridge, no way for that audience to stay in touch with the company, to find out what they are creating next, or to support their process outside of those 90 minutes. The performers disappeared behind the curtain, and the audience disappeared into the night. The connection was severed in an instant. In the digital world, we’re used to there always being a "next step" to connect. But in the performing arts, it feels like we invest months of work and our entire budget into that one single evening, and then we just let the audience fade away. How do you break down this wall after the curtain drops? How do you maintain a connection with the people who actually bought a ticket and came to see you, who aren't your personal friends? Share your thoughts in the comments. 👇
Thousands of streams, but an empty room? The digital distribution trap.
Coming from a background in music and digital publishing, I was always told that "global distribution" was the holy grail. Get your music on Spotify, Apple, and Bandcamp, and the world will find you. But over the years, I’ve seen a painful pattern, brilliant musicians getting thousands of streams worldwide, yet struggling to sell 30 tickets when they perform live in their own city. The algorithm gives us numbers, but it doesn't give us a community. It feels like digital publishing has become a giant archive where our work goes to get lost, rather than a bridge to connect with people. For the independent artists here: How do you bridge the gap between people clicking "play" or "like" online, and actually getting them into a room to experience your work? Have you found a way to make digital distribution feel human? Let's talk in the comments. 👇
We trained to be artists, not full-time social media managers.
I spend a lot of time looking at how independent artists publish their work digitally. Lately, it feels like the industry is forcing all of us to become full-time TikTokers, reel editors, and content creators just to get permission to do our actual art. You spend 15 hours editing a 30-second video clip with a trending audio track, hoping the algorithm favors you, just to get people to look at a production you spent 6 months pouring your heart into. It’s exhausting, and frankly, it leads straight to burnout. In Audience Lab, we can flip this on its head. What if we stopped trying to "create content" for algorithms and went back to just sharing our raw, messy, beautiful artistic process with a small group of people who actually care? How much time are you wasting on social media chores right now? Does it feel like it's taking away from your actual craft? Lets discuss in the comments.
