I've become increasingly suspicious of the idea that the purpose of life is simply to make enough money to survive.
Survive for what? To follow a football team? To watch other people live extraordinary lives while we observe from a distance or spend decades waiting for weekends and annual leave?
That can't be it.
Painting has ruined that illusion for me, not because it's easy or profitable and certainly not because it's sensible.
Most days in the studio are uncertain. Entire paintings collapse. Ideas fail and what seemed obvious in the morning often looks ridiculous by lunchtime.
But every now and then something happens. Something emerges from the chaos and a painting starts revealing itself. And for a moment everything feels completely alive.
Those moments are rare but they're real. More real than most of the things we're told should matter.
Art gives my life meaning. Not success or status or validation.
Meaning.
The pursuit itself is meaningful whether anyone buys the work or not.
Whether a gallery says yes or no or whether the painting succeeds or fails.
The work, the search and the possibility remains.
People talk about finding themselves but I don't think you find yourself. I think you build yourself.
Painting by painting. Each decision we make. Year after year.
The older I get, the less interested I am in living through other people's achievements, opinions or expectations.
I'd rather make something and risk failure, spending my time chasing something that feels impossible than settle for something that merely feels safe.
I may be broke but I'm not broken.
There is a difference.