What does it mean to be an artist? Perhaps the answer is never final. Perhaps it changes as we do. Doubt is always close, and questions rise along the road.

First step: Direction.
You are a relentless soul. You stumble, play, and chase delight. You keep playing, and discover you might be good at it. The road feels wide, unmarked. And yet, something stirs: maybe this is more than play. Maybe this is a road, though still unclear, still to be figured out.

Second step: Focus and Experience.
The road narrows. Hardship arrives. The delight that once carried you fades into effort. Every work takes more than you expected. Questions surface: Am I good enough?, Is this worth it? With every struggle, a quiet wisdom grows. It’s no longer only joy — it’s endurance, patience, discipline.

Third step: Understanding.
Life presses in. You discover that it’s not a matter of talent, but of choice. Sacrifices emerge: security, recognition, comfort, …self?. You must decide what you are willing to carry and what you are willing to lose. The only certainty is the choice itself; the rest is built by walking it.

Fourth step: Intention.
Maturing. Comfortably stumbling in the dark. Your soul, mind, and body align — not perfectly, but enough to touch the depth of your own vision. You realize that art is born from a strange collision: the selfish desire to be you, and the selfless urge to give something larger than you. From their clash, something new emerges. Like Heraclitus’ river, the work is never the same twice — and neither are you.

Fifth step: Dedication.
And so you return, again and again, to the rocky road, like Sisyphus, condemned to push his boulder, confronting endless mastery. The ambition of each work remains incomplete, each triumph only temporary. Yet unlike Sisyphus, you are not condemned—you choose this fate. Camus saw Sisyphus as a hero: a man who, despite the absurdity of his task, finds meaning in the climb itself. The mountain is never conquered; the climb is within, and in it you become. Do you reach the end of the road, or do you recognize there is no road at all? Only being—restless, painful, real.

And so I return to the question: what does it mean to be an artist?