The Great Tragedy

Every artist you've heard of had help. A record deal. Management. Luck. A patron.

The old masters painted biblical scenes because the church paid for the paint. They may not have wanted to. They had to live. They had to buy materials. They had to eat.

Same thing now. Different forms.

Yes, most of the famous ones are talented. Sometimes that's actually debatable. But they can create because they have time. Space to think. Space to make mistakes. Space to use their mind almost exclusively for the craft.

Some break through without it. Starving. Working full time. Raising kids. It happens. It's rare. When it does it's special.

Two things.

How good could their work have been with the time and space to fully give to it?

And all the ones we will never hear of. The ones who had it. Maybe more than anyone we have ever heard of or will ever hear of.

They are painting your house. They are in the cubicle next to you. They are the single mother. They are without a home. They are the junkie. They didn't make it.

Their craft was who they were. Their music is who they are.

No patron. No time. No space.

And so the art dies with them. Or sits in the closet unfinished. Or in their head as untapped ideas. Or in their mirror as regret.

And the world needs them. But we don't give them time. And we don't give them space.

Yet art is the only thing that lasts. It outlasts. Money. Businesses. Governments. People. They collapse or fade or disappear.

And we don't make time for art. And we forget. And hope is lost.

This is the great tragedy.