Feed The Machine
"Success is nothing more than a few simple disciplines, practiced every day"~Jim RohnBeing an artist in 2024 is a strange and often unsettling experience.
There’s this ever-present tension between creating what’s true to yourself and creating what you think others want to see. It’s a battle that never quite goes away—especially in a world that constantly asks artists to put themselves on display, to package their craft as consumable content.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve gravitated toward making what I wanted to make. Art for art’s sake. Not for the likes, not for the clicks, not for the algorithm. There’s a purity in that approach—a certain sense of integrity that comes from staying true to your vision, untainted by outside pressures.
But at what point does that become a selfish pursuit?
At what point does it become ego-driven?
Is it wrong to not consider the audience when you create? To ignore what they might want or expect?
I don’t have clear-cut answers to these questions. They’re the kinds of things I think about late at night when my mind spirals into reflection. But I do know that these questions matter, because they touch on something deeper—something all of us as artists have to face at some point.
Here’s what I’ve come to realize: It’s absolutely okay to create for yourself. It’s okay to create for the sake of creation, for the sheer joy of making something that didn’t exist before. It’s okay to create something and never share it with the world.
But here’s the catch—there’s always a trade-off.
The internet has given us, as artists, the incredible gift of reach. We can share our work with people on the other side of the world, people who otherwise might never have seen what we’ve made. Our creations can travel further and faster than ever before.
That’s powerful.
You might reach an audience that deeply resonates with what you’re doing, people who find value and inspiration in your work. You might even build a community of true fans, people who care not just about your art but about you as a person. And that community can support you—financially, emotionally, artistically. It can create opportunities you never imagined possible. You might be able to make a living doing what you love, sustained by the very people who consume what you create.
It sounds like a dream, right?
But like all things in life, this blessing comes with a curse.
There’s a point where you have to make a choice: Do you stay in your studio, crafting brilliant works of art that go unseen, only to be forgotten by the world? Or do you trade some of your time—your precious creative time—to package your work in a way that others can easily consume?
In 2024, it’s not enough to simply paint a picture. Now, you have to document the process. You have to turn that painting into a video, break down your technique, explain your inspiration. You have to create content around your art, not just the art itself. Because, let’s face it, the art alone won’t resonate with people anymore—at least not in the same way. The process, the behind-the-scenes, the story you tell about the art is just as important as the piece itself.
And that’s the trade-off we all face.
The time you spend creating content—crafting Instagram posts, making YouTube videos, sharing behind-the-scenes stories—is time you’re not spending on your art. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, but it’s the reality we live in.
I know this because I’ve experienced it firsthand.
A few months ago, I decided to step away from the machine. I took a break from social media—no posts, no videos, no stories. I didn’t even tell anyone I was doing it. I just went silent.
And to be clear, this wasn’t some sort of elaborate publicity stunt. Honestly, I doubt anyone even noticed.
The truth is, I didn’t have much of a choice. I was overwhelmed with work—client projects, deadlines, everything piling up at once. I didn’t have the bandwidth to keep up with social media on top of it all. I was so focused on delivering the work I’d been hired to do that I didn’t have time to let the world know what I was up to.
There were some surprising advantages to going silent.
First off, I suddenly had hours of extra time in my day—time I wasn’t spending on social media. I wasn’t glued to my phone, thinking about what to post, engaging with other creators, responding to DMs, or stressing about the algorithm. I had space to breathe.
And that space allowed me to reflect.
Without the constant pressure to post, I found that my ideas began to flourish. I wasn’t thinking in terms of what would look good on Instagram, what would get the most likes, or what would boost my engagement. Instead, I was thinking about the work itself—the craft, the process, the joy of creating without an audience.
I started to develop my skills further, learning new techniques, experimenting with different mediums, and challenging myself in ways I hadn’t before. Without the pressure of social media, I could focus entirely on growth.
And it wasn’t just my art that improved.
I had time to focus on my health—something I had been neglecting for far too long. I started cooking nutritious meals, exercising regularly, and taking care of both my body and mind. I read books that expanded my perspective and gave me new insights into my life and work. I spent time in silence, reflecting on where I wanted to go and who I wanted to become.
For the first time in a long time, I felt aligned—physically, mentally, and creatively.
But, as with all things, there was a cost.
The biggest disadvantage of stepping away from social media was losing my audience.
I had disappeared, and in my absence, people had forgotten about me. My audience didn’t know what I was working on, didn’t see the progress I was making, didn’t know about the projects I was pouring my heart into. And as a result, my reach dwindled.
The leads stopped coming in.
I had unintentionally cut off the lifeline that had been feeding my business. Sure, I was still creating. I was still doing some of my best work. But no one knew about it because I wasn’t sharing it.
And this is where the dilemma comes into play.
I realized that while I had been focusing on creating my best work, I had neglected the machine—the very machine that had helped me grow my audience and build my career in the first place.
I had two choices: continue resisting the machine and risk being forgotten, or find a way to feed it without losing myself in the process.
So, I did what any artist in 2024 has to do: I adapted.
I spent two months creating relentlessly—focusing on the projects that inspired me, the work that I knew would move me forward. But this time, I didn’t leave the machine starving.
I built a runway.
By the end of those two months, I had a backlog of work—enough content to last me 90 days. I scheduled my posts, crafted my content, and set up a system that allowed me to share my journey without feeling overwhelmed by the constant pressure to produce.
Now, I can focus on what I do best: creating.
I don’t have to scramble to come up with something to post every week because I’ve already built that runway. My audience gets to see the fruits of my labor, and I get to keep my sanity.
The leads are starting to trickle back in. And the best part? I’m spending the majority of my time offline, working on the projects that matter most to me. I only log on to hit “post” and support the creators I believe in. I’ve eliminated the mindless consumption, and I’ve replaced it with intentional creation.
And that’s the lesson here.
You can resist the machine, but if you want to build a sustainable career as an artist, you have to feed it.
You have to share your work. You have to show up consistently. You have to let the world know what you’re doing, what you’re creating, what you’re building.
That doesn’t mean losing yourself in the process. It doesn’t mean becoming a content machine. It just means finding a balance—creating a system that allows you to share your journey without sacrificing your creative integrity.
For me, that balance came in the form of building a runway—a backlog of work that gives me the freedom to create without the pressure of constantly needing to post.
You can fight the machine, or you can learn to feed it on your terms. The choice is yours.
But I promise you, if you can find a way to feed the machine without losing yourself, the rewards will follow.
Thanks for reading.
-P