I wish I knew who this guy is. He’s the one that just sat down a few tables away. He’s one of the ‘real artists’.
Every Tuesday, he plops down his drawings and gets coffee and then begins to lose himself to that hypnotic rhythm that all artists – fledgling or fulfilled – know and love. Every Tuesday, I pass his table to drink in what has already transpired on his page and I breathe out awe.
I wish I knew this guy, and I’ll bet he’d love to talk about his art, but a little demon whispers in my brain, “he would only talk to another real artist, and you are not in that league.”
And sometimes I whisper back, “There are no real or unreal artists. There are only people who need it with every bit of their being and people who don’t.”
But every Tuesday I leave wishing I were brave.