Think about what it was like to be a sculptor 500 years ago.
You had a hunk of rock, a vision, and some tools.
If you were lucky, you’d have the right tools.
And if you were extremely lucky—or knew the right people—then you’d be commissioned by some king or queen or religious leader to make a sculpture.
Your life as a sculptor was different than the life of your painter friends.
Your painter friends had it easy.
They had a canvas, a vision, paint, and some tools.
They also had more room to fuck up and be ok. They could make one stroke of the brush, and they could paint over it if it was wrong. Easy, problem solved.
Yes, it was still hard to be a painter. But a painting mistake was more forgiving.
And then think of this…
As soon as your painter friend touched his brush to the canvas, the king or queen or religious leader could immediately see progress.
But when they looked at you and your work, you could be chipping and hammering and blasting away at your sculpture for days and days. And still, people would question if you were making any progress at all.
Although it’s less forgiving, and although progress takes longer, I enjoy being a sculptor.
Because in the end, there’s no denying that what was in your head is now the reality.
All because you chipped away, day after day.