But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That’s closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.
Like a Rubik’s cube, I have many configurations; Do not assume you have “figured” me out just because you’ve seen one side.
The intention (of an artist) is (the same as a scientist)…to discover and reveal what is unsuspected but significant in life.
That day I behaved like a good artist, one whose job is to build rather than break.
It’s always been most important for me to figure out “my space” rather than trying to check out what everyone else is up to, minute by minute. Technology is making it easier to connect to other people, but maybe harder to keep connected to yourself– and that’s essential for any artist, I think.
Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.
The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people, than to many rich folk who display inward poverty.
The Internet is the best and worst thing to ever happen in this lifetime.
You say great artists sell their souls for their art?”
“Maybe,” she ventured.
“That’s true, I suppose. If you’re doing it right, anyway. I’ve probably sold mine. Jack’s certainly sold his. And you, I imagine.”
“I have not!” she said, anger showing clear in her eyes.
“Not literally,” he said hastily. “But we give up being a person to be an artist, don’t we?
We need to clean our own yards before we go looking for -shit- in someone else’s.