"Artists hear what no one else hears. They see what no one else sees. They say what no one else says. They must. And to do this, they traffic in the slippery yield of
their own souls. They bring to earth the wrack and lode of depths that only they can reach and still come back alive.

Inspiration is a flash. A momentary flicker that--if the would-be recipient is mired in mindless chatter--might easily die unseen. It cannot me repeated, duplicated, slowed down, cached for viewing at some more convenient time. The mind awaiting inspiration must be primed, ever awake, aware. For this it is best off alone.

She is gifted, they say. She has the gift. A gift with hard labor attached. After inspiration must come the plunge down inner passages, the search which suffocates but also liberates: the spelunking where no one could help even if you wanted them to. Instead, plucking souvenirs from those depths, you must keep asking yourself, in a tongue only you can speak, What next? But how? while shapes and colors swirl out of control. A gift, but a subpoena.

Which requires initiative. Commitment...Conviction that something so personal is worth doing no matter what. No matter if they try to talk you out of it. No matter if they call you self-indulgent, talentless. They will. No matter--all the better--that it is best done alone, some would say only done alone. No matter if they do not understand. Deluded, they think you are doing this for them. Sillies. Edvard Munch refused for many years to sell or even show his paintings anywhere. He saw no cause to share.

Art breeds loners. Loners breed art."

--Anneli Rufus, "Party of One: The Loner's Manifesto" pg. 116