I am A Wandering Painter

 

I am not confident enough. As I knew more and more about painting, I started to get lost and I didn't know what the most important image for me is. I couldn't face the canvas with a serious attitude. (Why is it necessary to have a definite picture? To present my work to others? Can't I be a painter without work? Painting is a lifelong pleasure, so why should I treat this as a trial or an ordeal.)

 

I am too honest. I couldn't pretend to accept that it was what I wanted, couldn't fool myself that it was enough. (Honesty is a good quality.)

 

I am headstrong. I don't want to give up painting, and I try to keep going even though my work sucks like shit a lot of the time. (As long as I don't give up, I'm the winner.)

 

I am too lazy. All my works are born from an opportunity in my life, without any plan, without self-awareness of a professional artist. (Isn't this the true meaning of art? A companion for a lonely soul, a shelter for the misery of life, a killing machine for boring time. If my life is busy, happy, sweet and colorful, why do I need something like art? I just want to be a joyful nihilist, to improvise, to finish my life's journey leisurely.)

 

I am too stubborn. I can't listen to anyone, even if I know they're right. (If the future is predictable, is there any point? Maybe it's just an excuse for my laziness, because listening to others means putting in the effort to change the present. Who knows?)

 

I am probably a master of sophistry, able to justify myself with "()" over and over again. (It's a good self-protection mechanism to maintain a balanced mental state and not easy to suicide. Living well is the warrior of life.)

 

The artist's privilege gives me absolute freedom, except that I can't become a koala - eating leaves for 4 hours and sleeping for the other 20 hours.