the funny thing about art is that it's vicious.
people all over are critiquing it and tearing it apart in a frantic search for flaws.
so opening up is hard.
it's hard for the sculptor to pull the canvas sheet off his masterpiece and show his wife because he fears her daggers.
it's hard for the pianist to play her composition for her muse because what if he hates it?
it's hard for the writer to pull her manuscript off the type writer and show it to her brother because she fears she has misspelled a word and that's all he will see.
it's hard for the painter to show his daughter the rose he painted her because what if she shreds it up and screams her displeasure?
but there are these patches of light in an artist's path.
there are the people who take the words, slowly digesting them in all their glory.
there are the beautiful souls who swear by your brush strokes and commas and the piano keys you wrote.
they build you a castle, so your words can take hold in the ground and flower into vines of art.
those few people are the reasons we continue to create.
why we continue to push ourselves out to the brink of failure.
to row out passed the currents of insecurities to brave the massive waves of judgement.
the funny thing about art is that even though it's everywhere, it's always hiding in the hearts of the broken.
