Being an artist is not merely a profession. It is a lifestyle; a way to vent out everything. Art comes in a form of emotion. There is no formula to a masterpiece, rather it is a craft that is pondered on by feeling and endless battles with the mind.
I hail every artist for their work, for stroking out a painting using your own tears is no joke. There are poets who bleed blood through the ink of their pen, and the crime scene no more than just the paper filled with black scribbles trying to figure out what rhymes with what is a war front that is only won by a signature at the bottom; waiting for the next war to emerge, for the next poem to be written.
It’s ironic how people praise the beauty of an artwork, when it is not an elegant journey after all. Showcasing art is like being nude in front of an audience. You are stripped with fear, and mixed emotions, yet people see you as a God. An Apollo who’s chained to doubt eternally like Prometheus.
Writing something good is digging up old scars and fresh wounds. It takes courage to submit a piece, and show it to the world. Even though people tell you how good you are, you are humbled by your demons.
It’s a gift to write, perform, paint, draw and be creative; but it is also a curse that nobody can feel but the artist himself.
They are driven to continue because of the support from the community. But there are also iconic artists like Van Gogh and Hemingway who were deprived by the society they lived in.
The shoes of an artist is not that easy to fill, for you have to feel their lowest points to understand how they managed to turn darkness into beauty.