A long while ago, in a cafe, I met a blind musician whose mastery over a multitude of instruments was astonishing. Each note carried such confidence, such presence — as if he were speaking directly through the music. The only other person I have met with that same command is maestro Job Tezigatwa. Though this man’s reality was dark, music made it radiant. That was his ikigai — a Japanese word for “a reason for being,” a reason to live.
As I listened, a thought crept in. As a visual artist, my work could never touch him. He could not see my paintings, my sketches, my colors. At first this realization weighed on me, but then something shifted: just because I was moved by his music did not mean I had to move him in return. Sometimes it’s okay to be a spectator.
For you and for me, what we make will not reach everyone — nor should it. Some will pass by untouched, but others will lean in and feel it deeply. Those few are our people. They are the ones we must create for.
History shows how this works. Marvel began in the hands of comic-book nerds, whose passion carried it to cinema screens worldwide. Anime, once considered niche and strange, now fills theaters across the globe because of the dedication of Otaku. In each case, the few who cared most deeply became the bridge to the many.
“So, when you create, resist the urge to measure yourself by who you cannot reach. Instead, pour yourself into those who listen, who see, who believe. They will energize you as much as you energize them. That is the natural course of art: from the few who care deeply, to the many who join in later. It’s a long and bumpy road, my friend, you will need their support.
“We all want what we cannot have. But your work was never meant to belong to everyone — it only needs to belong deeply to someone.”