There are those who make art and they know there’s no future in it, so eventually they stop. Life gets too busy and they just don’t see the point anymore. They let it go, they move on to working and raising children and in general just experiencing life. Occasionally they’ll make some doodles that look particularly impressive and some co worker will say over their shoulder ‘that’s really good.’
Then there are the artists who can’t stop. Even if it’s not any good, even if no one ever sees it or hears it, they can’t stop creating. They’re lives get chaotic and they’re documenting the traumas with paint. Their hearts get broken and they sing about the betrayal. Their house burns to the ground and they make art from the ashes. If they get an interview or get into a gallery they ask ‘why do you make art?’, and the artist makes something up that sounds really good. But in truth, they’re thinking ‘how could I not make art?’. Their wrists give out and their voices crack, even their fans are saying ‘maybe it’s time to quit.’ But somewhere along the way they saw their muse, and they keep seeing her in their dreams, in the way people act, in the direction the wind is blowing and if they don’t create, then they don’t fucking exist.