The maker…

For me there was always something strange between an art and an artist. 

Something too complicated to get it.

When I stepped into this world, dive into this passion, madness even… suddenly I started to separate one from another.

Because all together it was always too much.

People can buy a piece only because they like a person who created it. They love the way she lives, talks like or even only… look like. Or she likes cats. Or he prefers dogs, has a bike and really does not care.

Or she is depressed… lives in the woods, talks a lot about nature and weird stuff, enlightenment and dreams. And even maybe makes her own linen, wooden spoons and has chickens.

The truth is that because of social media artists became more visible, more open, more true… earlier they were, well, usually when most popular, dead. Right? Now people live our lives and have open doors to our homes. Somehow artists do not hide anymore, or maybe we do? I do?

I really do not wanna know.

Your personal life is your personal thing. I do not want to know if my favorite author was good or bad, had lovers or was eating raw cows. I just do not wanna know. I want books, art, not them. Not people. I do not need ghosts attached to paper, canvas or wood. Just not. Because for me it is too much. Just too much…

The maker is not always willing to let it go… let his words, pictures or paintings, sculptures or clothes live. Breath. Be a part of someone else life. I think we artists too often are too attached to pieces we created, gave birth to, that they can bring weird uncalm feelings in some people. We got to let go, or keep them for us.


What kind of gods are we?

Those who create only for ourselves or maybe for others?

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