Artists are truly magicians. We conceive our ideas in the privacy of our own heads and through our magic wand we bring that idea to life. Brushes become mystical tools and color becomes its own mysterious language that only we can understand.
To some who enter our domain, it must seem like entering the cave of an ancient druid. Our shelves are lined with ephemera that tantalizes. Visitors are both intrigued and apprehensive. The tools of the alchemist are all around them. They do not belong here.
If we'd been born in a different century we might be burned at the stake or revered as gods.
Are we vain? Of course we are. We know we carry within us the secrets of the universe. We know that we can only touch those secrets when we are creating. But we are humble also because we are sure that others will only see scribbles. But we keep at it because its what we must do.
Even if we can't really change iron to gold, the mere idea that we can create anything that our imaginations can see keeps us magical and mysterious. We are who we are.