Similar writing style to "I know you, sir" but this is my definition of an artist.
When I was three years old I finger-painted a tree and that was the start of everything. Flash-forward fifteen years. I’m slaving over a piece of paper bringing to life an idea that made me get out of bed at midnight, my eyes pink and burning from refusing to blink in fear I might lose concentration, and have to start all over again, again. Thanks for the tragedy, I needed it for my art. These tears will make the perfect solution to wet my watercolors, I wonder what its like to paint with coffee. This is my only passion, this is what I live for. I’ve found my thing at a young age and I refuse to let this curse go to waste, but I devote so much time to my works that perhaps I’m being selfish. I love having nightmares because they create the best prompts, even if it means going through half a sketchbook just to end up with one precious piece that I’ll probably end up smearing anyway because I’m too excited to let the ink dry. Physically creating is only a small portion of the job, you aren’t an artist until you’ve cried over other artists work, wishing you were that good. I’m tearing the drawing of that beautiful woman that I worked on for two and a half hours because the proportions aren’t just right. I’m angry at society’s reaction to abstract, non-representational art allows us to experience colors and feelings without assigning them to a specific reality, being an artist is like being yourself for a living which is something that the people inside the box wouldn’t understand. Don’t draw what you see, draw what you can’t. On this canvas I can create the impossible, and anything I can possibly imagine can be real. I influence emotion, and if that isn’t power I don’t know what is. Being an artist is the same as being a wizard. With this paintbrush on this canvas I can catch your house on fire and I won’t go to jail, because being an artist is the best excuse for insanity. “An artist is a creature driven by demons, he doesn’t know why they chose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why” truer words have never dripped past a wiser set of teeth. I want to rip my hair out because my obsessive perfectionism is starting to get the best of me. Its not good enough, I could have done better. Stupid. This is the process. Anybody can look at a woman and assess her beauty, but only an artist can look at that woman and imagine her image in old age. These are the emotions. Now, the next time you ask, “how’d you do that?” just know that, dear, I myself am still not sure.