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There are days I wonder if I’ve chosen the hardest path—the path of making from within, without shouting, without selling a story louder than the work itself.

For many years, I made art alongside my profession, carrying my creative voice like a secret garden I would tend in solitude. Now, having stepped fully into the life of an artist, I face a truth that is both beautiful and brutal: to live by art alone is a different kind of labour. Not just of the hands, but of visibility, structure, systems—many of which feel alien to the artist in me.

This world is not short of “artists.” Art is everywhere. But often what rises to the surface is not the quiet, thoughtful work—it is what is well branded, loud, and socially fluent. Sometimes that work is beautiful. But other times, it’s simply well-positioned.

And then there are people like me. People who make with integrity, who do not enjoy promoting themselves, who do not speak in trends, who feel uneasy turning art into a campaign. I don’t want to convince anyone. I just want to create what I must—and hope that it will one day find those who can see it for what it is.

But the cost is high. Even a simple thing like introducing my work on a website becomes complicated—another plugin to buy, another algorithm to please, another way of showing up in a world that often feels rigged against sincerity.

Some days, I ask myself: is it possible to remain true and still survive?

There is no easy answer. But I know this: the work matters. The making matters. And if I must walk slower, I will. But I will not dilute the essence of what I do, or who I am, to meet a market that values performance over presence.