THE UNSATISFIED SUCCESSFUL

a great artist who lived a stable family life, and as far as we can  tell, was not unhappy. The thing about being an artist is that it is, in itself, a depressing proposition. Few other spheres of life open a person up to such a level of rejection. Even in romantic relationships — the arena in which every dilettante becomes, for a while, an artist — rejection, while virtually inevitable, is rarely forever. Everyone gets married sooner or later. It may not be a happy marriage, but that’s a separate question. The artist, on the other hand, must plow ahead in the knowledge that it’s not only possible that no one will ever appreciate their work; it’s probable. And artists care deeply about their work. They have to. No one ever produced any great work of art by not trying, and to try hard at anything means to care about it. You work steadily in the dark, hammering out your vision, baring your soul, until finally you produce your masterpiece — and the world shrugs and carries on. It’s devastating. So, just as unhappy people make art, art makes unhappy people. If you decide to dedicate your life to your art, you’re going to be unhappy quite a lot of the time. It’s a cruel and vicious business, this practice of exposing one’s inner heart to complete strangers.