Everyone in the arts wonders sometimes whether or they are good enough, and questions whether they really ought to be following the path they are. Or so I would suppose. There are probably some exceptions with humongous egos who have never wondered.
I’m in an art class right now that makes me wonder why I’m doing this. I get frustrated and angry, and I think “Why am I here? I hate this. I must not be a real artist.” And I wonder if my fellow students can laugh at themselves, because everything seems so serious.
But that is not the only art I do. And my sketchbooks, full of characters from imagined worlds, remind me that while I am not perfect, I am capable. I have my own style and pieces that I am proud of. And regardless of what one professor thinks Art is, I am a storyteller and I will let no one tell me otherwise.