On the Nature of Artifice

So honestly, I don't really care who doesn't click "like." I could give a crap less who reads or doesn't read my often lengthy diatribes and perhaps even rather antisocial social commentary! I don't even give a hoot when people say, "I think you just need to write a book." Because I'll just reply, "That's funny. I thought I was!" I mean, if everybody paid inordinate attention to all their critics, or even their devoted, covetous, blubbering fans, why even bother to produce anything at all in the first place?

Art, real artifice, has not so much to do with the audience as it does with the expression of the artist. For all fame is fleeting, all adoration is fickle and easily distracted, and in end, all that really matters is that you put in the work, you went through the paces, you did a dozen sloppy sketches before you even put a drop of careful paint on the canvas. You scrawled a thousand and one silly little words on a hundred and one scraps of paper. And maybe that's good enough. At least, when it comes to most fine art anyway - for only Time and Posterity tends to tell the true and lasting worth of the vast majority of any of it.