Art is an immaculate child of conceit. It begins with conceit, conceit that what I write or paint or compose or sing or perform will be well-received by at least one person.
I have not come across anyone who, like me, thinks about the staggering conceit, arrogance if you will, of thinking that I will indulge in poetry, painting, writing, performing or singing and there will be someone, anyone, somewhere, anywhere who would applaud it.
Of course, while one is in the process of creation, one does not think of its reception. At least, I do not. However, more often than not on completing a piece of art or writing or singing or composing one can tell whether that might be well received.
I am embarrassed somewhat to say this but I encounter that more frequently than ever before. Even if I discount 90 or even 95 percent of appreciative reaction as social media politeness or just pure indulgence of a fellow human being, that still leaves five percent of those who genuinely seem to like what I post. That is an overwhelming feeling.
Let me cite just two examples; one is a poetic verse, a line really, and the other a rapid sketch that I did recently.
The verse in question is this in Hindi.