There are many scary moments in the life of an artist. The first is when you accept that you are one. You admit that you are not willing do anything else. Then, you stick to your work even when the results don’t come close to what you intended to make.
You solve technical problems that threaten to stop you: the paint cracks, the clay explodes, the soldered parts fall off and the stone breaks when you set it. Finally, you make pieces you are –relatively– satisfied with and show them to others. This part is unnerving because you know your work can improve.
If you want to sell what you make, you realize you also need to show who you are, why you made it, and how you made it. This frightens you because you’ve never asked yourself these questions. So you dive in and learn to articulate what you discover. A daunting task because you are not a writer or a journalist. Still you continue, because the scariest part of being an artist is to stop making art.
You solve technical problems that threaten to stop you: the paint cracks, the clay explodes, the soldered parts fall off and the stone breaks when you set it. Finally, you make pieces you are –relatively– satisfied with and show them to others. This part is unnerving because you know your work can improve.
If you want to sell what you make, you realize you also need to show who you are, why you made it, and how you made it. This frightens you because you’ve never asked yourself these questions. So you dive in and learn to articulate what you discover. A daunting task because you are not a writer or a journalist. Still you continue, because the scariest part of being an artist is to stop making art.
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