This is what you don't see in the art you just purchased.
The years of practice, the scrap pile, the discard pile, the scribbles of frustration, the aching hands and back, the imposter syndrome, the questioning if you are good enough, the comparison, the destroyed work, the painted-over work, the rejected emails from galleries, the long breaks from art making. But mostly the showing up and making anyway, despite it all. The serious work, the literal blood sweat, and tears. The intense need. The can't-live-without. The couldn't-stop-if-I-tried. The practice that leads to muscle memory and flow state euphoria. The artist, not as identity or label, but as spiritual calling.
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