Last week, during a conversation about being an artist, someone asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks:
“How do you know when to call it a day?”
They meant it sincerely — not as criticism, but as a genuine attempt to understand what it means to keep going in a career that doesn’t follow a straight path. Later that same day, someone else asked what I do with all my paintings, as if to say: what’s the point in making them if they’re not for anyone in particular?
At the time, I didn’t have a clear answer. But both questions stayed with me. Not because they were harsh, but because they touched on something familiar — the kind of doubt most artists carry, whether they admit it or not.
It made me reflect on something I’ve come to believe more strongly over time — that artists should never give up, even when the path isn’t clear.
Showing Up, Even When It’s Quiet
One of the most consistent things I’ve heard from artists further along the path is simple: keep showing up — because artists should never give up.
To the studio. To the sketchbook. To the work.
That idea sounds straightforward, but it isn’t always easy — especially when things feel quiet. When nothing seems to be happening. When the effort doesn’t appear to be leading anywhere.
There’s a common perception that success arrives suddenly — a breakthrough moment, a lucky opportunity, something that changes everything overnight. But more often, it builds slowly. Quietly. Through repetition.
Chuck Close once said, “Inspiration is for amateurs — the rest of us just show up and get to work.”
That idea has stuck with me. Because showing up creates momentum, and momentum is what carries things forward when motivation dips.
The Role of Self-Belief
Self-belief is more complicated.
It isn’t constant, and it isn’t loud. Most of the time, it’s something much quieter — a sense that what you’re doing matters, even when there’s no external confirmation of it.
That’s difficult to hold onto when:
- nothing is selling
- responses are minimal
- progress feels unclear
But without it, it’s hard to keep moving.
I remember hearing an artist say, “If you don’t believe in what you’re doing, why should anyone else?” It’s a simple idea, but not always an easy one to live by.
And yet, time and again, something tends to happen just when doubt starts to take over — a message, an opportunity, a small shift that suggests the work is reaching further than you realised.
The Invisible Audience
One of the more unusual aspects of working as an artist today is that you rarely know who’s paying attention.
Not everyone engages publicly. Not everyone comments or reaches out straight away. But that doesn’t mean the work isn’t being seen.
Sometimes it takes time.
Sometimes it shows up in ways you didn’t expect — through a conversation, a recommendation, or someone getting in touch months later. But none of that can happen if you’ve already stopped.
That idea — that the work is finding its way, even when it doesn’t feel like it — is something I’ve become more aware of over time, particularly as I’ve seen it begin to connect with people in ways I hadn’t anticipated through the work itself.
Progress Doesn’t Always Look Like Progress
It’s easy to assume that if nothing obvious is happening, nothing is happening at all.
But a lot of progress in this space is invisible.
It’s in:
- the consistency
- the development of the work
- the gradual refinement of your voice
Things that don’t announce themselves, but accumulate over time.
And often, the people who appear to have “suddenly” succeeded have simply been doing this for longer than anyone noticed.
Staying With It
The reality is that this path is uncertain.
There’s no clear timeline. No guaranteed outcome. And no point where things suddenly become easy.
But the only way any of it has a chance to work is by continuing.
Not because it’s comfortable. Not because it’s certain. But because stopping removes any possibility of what might come next.
A Shared Experience
Every artist I’ve spoken to — regardless of where they are in their career — has faced the same question at some point:
Is it time to stop?
And every one of them, in that moment, made a decision to keep going.
That’s the difference.
Not talent alone. Not luck. But the decision to stay with it.
Keep Going
If you’re asking yourself that question now — whether it’s worth it, whether it’s leading anywhere — then you’re not alone.
That’s why, for me, the idea that artists should never give up isn’t about blind optimism — it’s about understanding how this path actually works.
Most people who make a life in this space have stood in exactly that position.
The uncertainty doesn’t disappear. But over time, you learn to work with it rather than against it.
So if you’re in that place — unsure, questioning, doubting — take this as a quiet reminder to keep going.
Not because you know where it leads.
But because you don’t.
