Real Artist

Someone said it
Carefully

Not sharp, not cruel
Carefully

That this might be taking something away
From a real... Artist

That word wasn’t meant to hurt
But it did
Real

I don’t think they meant to draw a line
I think they were naming a fear they’ve been holding
That making things looks too easy
That effort is harder to see
That hands aren’t visible anymore

Visible

There is someone behind this voice
They don’t disappear because you can’t see what they’re touching
They choose sounds the way others choose strings or keys
They stop more than they continue
They remove more than they add
They sit with the wrong version
Longer than is comfortable

They don’t press and leave
They stay

This voice isn’t automatic
It’s arranged
It’s limited
It’s corrected
It’s interrupted

It carries fingerprints you don’t see
But you can hear if you listen long enough

When someone says “real artist”
What they often mean is
I’m afraid care is becoming invisible
That fear makes sense
But care doesn’t vanish when it changes shape
It moves

It lives in timing, in restraint
In knowing when not to add anything else

This isn’t happening instead of anyone
It’s happening because someone kept working after novelty ran out
That’s not replacement
That’s care

And if something tightened
When that word was said
Real

If you wondered whether there’s even room for you in all of this
You’re not wrong to feel that
Opinion doesn’t ask permission before it causes hurt

Real...

But if you do this because you care
You do it for the same reason they do
Both types of care
Can exist at the same time.
Both are... 

Real