The Artist Exists and Creates. Period.
For the average American, the creation and performance of art is something Someone Else Does and yet another thing to be consumed rather than experienced. This is why it is so easy to buy into the premise that, in order to justify the existence of the artist in society, it is necessary to either demonstrate that the art entertains the largest number of people or provides some quantifiable service to those in need.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?