- Spoiler: It’s a lot less wine and galleries, and a lot more coffee and mess.
No one tells you how many hours you’ll spend fighting your own inner critic. No one mentions that pricing your work feels like trying to appraise your own soul. And don’t even get me started on writing descriptions. (“This piece is… blue. Emotionally blue. Spiritually blue. Just buy it? Please?”)
But you know what? The reality—once you settle into it—is beautiful in its own way.
Because there’s magic in the chaos.
Freedom in the uncertainty.
And profound pride in creating something that didn’t exist before your hands touched it.
It’s not what I expected. It’s harder. But also so much richer.
And that moment—when someone tells you your art made them feel something? That’s worth more than every imagined gallery show combined.
