Being an artist isn’t just about passion — it’s a perpetual confrontation with the self. It’s the internal battles that rage in silence, the restless tug of war between exhilaration and despair. One moment, I’m standing at the peak of creation, electrified by the rush of bringing something new into existence. The next, I’m scraping the bottom of doubt, wondering if any of it matters.
This dichotomy is the heartbeat of artistry. It’s the abject contrast between the highs and lows that somehow makes life feel more vivid. The rollercoaster of euphoria and desolation forces me to engage with the world in a way that others might not. I taste joy more acutely because I’ve lingered in sorrow. I embrace stillness more fully because I’ve wrestled with chaos.
I’ve come to understand that these emotional extremes aren’t just part of the process — they are the process. Every painting, every stroke, carries remnants of my internal landscape. The peaks, the valleys, the questions I can't answer — they all seep into the canvas. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe art is simply the residue of a life lived in full intensity.
Because without the lows, the highs wouldn’t feel like flying. And without the highs, I wouldn’t keep climbing.