After chasing birds out of dryer ducts, a nice soak all after 5 hours in the studio today, these thought jelled:
Art, being an artist, (music, visual arts, writing and the like) is a lonely occupation. The real work is done in the head and then as Mozart was claimed to have said the rest is scribbling. But it's that scribbling, that interpretation of the minds eye or the eye mind and converting it to more than just something deep within.
Interaction with others happens unless one locks themselves in some cave, but the real work is done in the studio, in front of the keyboard, or the piano.
Then comes survival, basic things like food and shelter. A patron ? That has implications regarding freedom of creation. A spouse? That works, that might work for a while; success ( an open definition) has to be there eventually to keep that going. And then there is a job.
Other considerations that be font me are the reality of the older artist. Can he or she maintain that necessary view on life that promotes creativity, that aids the inspiration? I'm lucky. I have grandchildren that are a wealth of ideas, a full life from which to draw, crazy ass family situations, (see stories in other venues like Kalkion and Aphelion archives).
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