Artists Continue

There is a part of being an artist people rarely see.

Not the finished photograph hanging on a wall.
Not the published words.
Not the awards or exhibitions.
Not the moments where it all looks effortless from the outside.

They do not see the doubt.

I have stood in juried shows. I have won awards. I once sat in a room while twelve established artists reviewed my portfolio and decided whether or not I was good enough to join their gallery. I remember the vulnerability of that moment, knowing years of work and dedication were sitting in their hands.

I was accepted.

My work has hung in shows as far away as Germany and Prague, and still there are nights where I wonder if I should continue creating at all.

That is the part people do not talk about enough. The imposter syndrome. The constant questioning. The way artists can accomplish things they once dreamed about and still quietly wonder if they belong.

The only critiques that truly stay with me are the ones from other professional artists and from myself. Those are the voices that matter to me because they understand the craft, the years behind it, the failures, the discipline, the obsession with getting it right.

I do not concern myself with critiques rooted in jealousy, envy, or bitterness. That is their burden to carry, not mine.

Artists know the difference.

They know the difference between honest critique meant to sharpen your work and the kind of criticism that exists simply because someone else cannot create what you do.

And often, our own inner voice becomes the harshest critique in the room anyway.

But artists continue.

We continue because creating is not just something we do. It is who we are.

I think about Van Gogh often. He sold one painting while he was alive. One. He struggled constantly with whether people understood or even cared about his work, yet he continued to create anyway.

Thank goodness he did.

Imagine all the beauty the world would have lost if he had stopped.

Maybe that is what being an artist truly is. Continuing despite the doubt. Continuing when recognition feels fleeting. Continuing because something inside of you refuses to be silent.

So we keep going.

One photograph.
One painting.
One page.
One attempt after another.

Quietly hoping that somewhere along the way, something we create makes another person feel less alone.

(The photograph that accompanies this is one from the exhibit showing my work in Berlin)