The hill, we drive up it with aspirations of…
It is hard to articulate my dreams and expectations for my work. That’s the honus of the creative type. We create, and we do it without hope of just compensation or even recognition. We toil and scratch out our souls on paper, canvas, stone, instruments without thought of an endgame. The creation is the point, it has to happen or we shrivel on the vine never to be plucked. It is after we created and we step back taking in the fullness of the work that we judge the worthiness of our child. Born of imagination, craft, skill, and talent, we bring these bastards out from our squalid hands and minds. The journey from our souls and minds, perfect creatures, out into the world through imperfect vessels. The closer we get to representing the divine ideas in our creation the more we feel they need shared.
Through the lens of a creator, we view our works, often obsessive and distorted, and place an idyllic value on it. One that will be invalid or validated through its acceptance or denial by an unknown audience of observers. Taking the mantle of this creation and making it bear fruit for us to continue our lives as creators. Hard to face a resistant force to our creative endeavor who rejects it, we sally forth pressing on in near impossible odds. We try because we give so much of ourselves to the thing we create.
It seems an impossible task, and persistence in the face of constant rebuttal is a brutality mortally wounding the confident art. As we climb the steed, Rocinante, wielding our lance of hope we charge with our ward, our creation in hopes of falling the dragon on the hilltop. That is every creative type person’s charge. A quixotic sojourn of the creative soul.