I’m a little torn these days on why I make art. It’s still as fun as ever, and in a way that should be reason enough. But when I was younger, it was an intense practice of self-expression. I was sad and neurotic and didn’t know how else to get all of that out of my head.
I’m happier now. I’m better able to cope with hard times without bleeding it all out onto a piece of paper or a computer screen. This is a good thing! But there are days when I miss the big anchor in my brain that kept me creating, even if it made me drown at the same time.
Now the primary reward of making something is that it might make people happy, or thoughtful, or anything really. It’s a super cool feeling! On the other hand, this tends to make me extra anxious about how any given thing is received.
It’s like I’m making a red velvet cake for a group of people. I might enjoy making the cake, but I don’t really want to eat it. If other people don’t like the cake enough to eat it either, was there really a point in making it? For me, I’m not so sure anymore. 🤔