I always wondered what it took to be an artist living of their craft. Spending hours on hours to craft something with passion. To give it a throne. To be on display for thousands. It certainly is a noble thought. Sculpting away until you digest it enough where it becomes your own identity. And maybe the identity of others as they identify with yours.
The ultimate dream.
But to what extent do we go to pursue that dream when everything desired, that what we think that we desire, is a mere form of another object that gets pushed into the wheel of many? Certainly it isn’t the reflection in the mirror to blame. But how gullible is the opposite of that reflection, when you run past the finish line over and over, until you exhaust yourself oblivious to milestones.
Last week the invisible ceiling showed itself. A lightbulb moment. Art is a mere part of a grander success that takes a realist to succeed. Through the lens of the realist we can reverse engineer, but never fully control the outcome. Not all is prefab. When you scratch deep enough there is passion. A desire at the end of the tunnel that thrives in passion and co-exist with the realist. As much as the artist find this to be demonology. There is harmony.