It’s not always beautiful. But it’s always real.
There’s a certain illusion that comes with saying, “I’m an artist.”
It conjures up images of light-filled studios, sudden bursts of inspiration, long coffee-fueled painting sessions, and graceful gallery openings where people sip wine and praise your work with knowing nods.
But the truth?
It’s a hell of a lot messier than that.
Being an artist—especially a working artist—isn’t always pretty, and it’s rarely convenient. It’s long nights meeting deadlines while your eyes blur. It’s chasing gallery responses for months only to be met with silence or a polite “maybe next season.” It’s driving two hours to set up for a craft market at dawn, praying it doesn’t rain, and hoping someone buys something more than a $4 sticker. It’s updating your website at 1AM, because no one else is going to do it, and you’re already behind. (Like how I accidentally published my unfinished website—shoutout to whoever saw the chaos and said nothing. You’re real ones.)
Deadlines, Burnout, and the Art That Demands to Be Done Anyway
Deadlines don’t care if you’re tired. They don’t care if you’re sick, grieving, or creatively blocked. Whether it’s prepping for a gallery show, finishing commissions, or uploading new pieces to your online store, the calendar doesn’t pause for your mental health. There are times when the only thing keeping you going is knowing someone’s expecting that piece. And yet, you show up—brush in hand, heart raw, spirit maybe a little frayed.
Galleries and Shows: Beautiful Pressure Cookers
There’s magic in seeing your work framed and lit on a clean wall. But getting there? That’s its own kind of marathon. From the moment you're accepted into a show, it’s a rush of logistics: framing, inventory lists, transport, pricing, installation, and maybe public speaking. You become your own registrar, curator, handler, and sometimes even janitor. No one tells you how much time you’ll spend just measuring things. Or how heavy your own art gets after the fifth trip back to the car.
And if it’s your first solo space—like mine was for Mei: Daoli—there’s nothing glamorous about the anxiety that comes with being seen so fully. It's vulnerable. It's terrifying. But it's worth it. Breathing in a space that is solely yours. With work that mattered to you.
Markets and the Hustle of Self-Marketing
Craft markets and pop-ups are a lifeline for many independent artists. But they also come with their own flavor of chaos: loading and unloading your entire booth, checking the forecast obsessively, figuring out your layout on the fly, dealing with payment processors that glitch mid-transaction, and answering the same questions over and over with grace (even when you’re running on three hours of sleep). And that’s after the prep: tagging, packing, pricing, and hoping your Square reader is charged.
Marketing yourself—online or in person—is its own full-time job. Social media algorithms shift, your engagement dips, and suddenly you’re scrambling to post “content” when all you want to do is paint in peace. But if you don’t show up, the world forgets you exist. Visibility isn't guaranteed—it's demanded.
Maintaining Your Studio, Your Work, and Yourself
Studios don’t clean themselves. Supplies don’t magically restock. Art doesn't magically photograph, edit, upload, or list itself online. And when you're also shipping your own orders, writing your own emails, framing your own pieces, and juggling five social media platforms... your body starts to feel it. Your back hurts. Your hands ache. Your brain runs like a browser with 74 tabs open.
And don’t get me started on taxes. Or inventory spreadsheets. Or chasing down payment from that one show two months ago.
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the art—it’s maintaining everything around it.
The Myth of Balance
There are times when balance is a lie. When you don’t see your friends for weeks. When meals are skipped or scarfed between tasks. When you question everything, and wonder if it’s even worth it. You get tired of justifying your pricing. You get tired of explaining that, no, you’re not “free” during weekdays because you work from home. You get tired of having to be “on” all the time.
And yet... you keep going.
Not because it’s glamorous. But because it’s yours.
Why I Still Do It
Because the moment someone connects with a piece and tells you it made them feel something, it reminds you why you started.
Because despite everything—the exhaustion, the unknowns, the unpaid labor of marketing and maintenance—there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.
Because creation is resistance.
Because beauty matters.
Because storytelling matters.
Because I can’t not do it.
So no, it’s not glamorous.
But it’s mine. And it’s real.
And that’s more than enough.
