Why “effortless” is worthless
Camille Claudel once asked Rodin,
What should I make?
He looked at her and said:
Start carving.
So she did.
She carved her heart out.
She was 24 years younger than Rodin and lost herself in the work. And in him.
They had an affair.
He was married.
When she finally showed him her sculpture, he said: This is good. I’ll put my name on it.
My teacher told me this story.
And I muttered: What a bastard.
But she shook her head.
No. That’s the story they keep telling us. But it’s not the whole truth.
I raised a brow. And listened.
She spoke of a different time—when you spent years as an apprentice in a master’s studio. You learned by watching. By working. By sweating through your apron. And if, one day, the master put his signature on your work, it didn’t mean he stole it.
It meant: The master thought your work was so good, he was willing to sign his own name underneath it.
A whole different lens.
A whole different world.
Different rules.
Different worth.
My teacher went on.
Today, people buy a course for the price of a sandwich, copy the whole damn thing, and never stop to think about what their teacher lived through to be able to teach it. The trials. The doubt. The sweat. The years. The doing.
As if knowledge just floats down from the sky.
But mastery—real mastery—is built on time. Repetition. Messing up. Getting back up. And quietly showing up again tomorrow.
So what defines worth now? Why does one artwork sell for a thousand grand and another for five bucks?
We live in a world that wants everything faster. Everything fun. Everything effortless.
If you struggle, you're the fool.
And while we scroll and swipe and "like" our way through the day, we forget the sacred weight of going deep.
AI plays its part. Speed takes over. Craft fades into fog.
Ask your uncle what he thinks of your painting and he’ll say:
That’s nice!
Meanwhile, you’ve poured your soul into it. FOR MONTHS!
He doesn’t mean harm. He just doesn’t know. Only artists know what it takes to make something that matters.
The doubt. The edits. The late nights. The pieces that didn’t make it. The ones that almost did.
Without that context, art loses its meaning. Its value.
The more people stop making, the more we forget what making costs. And once we forget, we stop seeing. Once we stop seeing, we stop valuing.
That’s how craft dies.
But here’s the good news.
(Because you know me. Marenthe, the stubborn optimist. HA!)
If you keep creating, you’ll feel something this world can’t hand you:
Satisfaction. Joy. Fulfillment. A fusion of head, heart, and hands.
Your hands never lie.
Trust them. Stay close to them. In a world where everyone’s yelling and no one’s listening, your hands still know what matters.
Your heart too.
They are your compass.
Let them lead.
And when you’re ready—that’s when you deepen the skill. You refine it. Until you reach that quiet, steady place called mastery.
Where it’s still. Where trust lives. Where time slows down and life gets so beautiful you wonder if this is paradise.
(It is. And no, I’m not exaggerating.)
So yes, I’ll keep saying it. Until my hands shake and I need three rubber bands to hold a pencil:
Art is sacred. And important. And worth protecting.
Honor it. Know what you’re here to do. Don’t trade it for speed or ease.
Don’t quit. Not now. Not ever. Because when you quit, you lose yourself.
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