You love class because it’s an outlet to being the douchey artist you sometimes want to be. You enjoy the pretentious discussion you have because, like all artists, you have a little pretentious asshole inside of you that can only be set free around other secretly pretentious assholes like yourself.
The artist knows that art breathes life into our existence.
My characters are fictional projections of people in my life.
Frustration is the foundation to creativity and the birthplace of new insights.
Art has become my catharsis. A piece of my soul that you can freely touch.
For the artist, training our eyes to see and embody each of the simple moments is the aim of the creative life.
But you’re a dreamer, you were born with the universe expressing itself in your mind, and now….now you want the universe at your fingertips.
You keep asking if the work was good enough. Did it serve its aim? Did it even have an aim?
10,000 hours for what? Only to be drowned by excessive conversation time and time again? Only to feel less relevant than the twice-told joke three tables down? Only to be constantly dealt with as an outsider in “the band?” Only to be found indispensable at the highest branches of power? Only to find the art failing to connect with people?
The reality is even things that you love, that you’re hungry for and passionate about, will occasionally be things you don’t want to do. Work is work. That’s why we don’t call it Big Happy Fun Time.