In a world obsessed with algorithms and visibility, the question lingers like the last chord of a haunting song: what does it mean to make it as an artist?
Is it fame?
Financial freedom?
The ability to live from your craft without compromise?
Or is it something quieter, more elusive—internal rather than external?
For many, “making it” in an artistic profession conjures images of sold-out shows, gallery representation, brand deals, or Spotify millions. The validation of a crowd, the sheen of success. These symbols shimmer because they offer what capitalism has trained us to pursue: freedom, attention, and a sense of safety. But do they bring happiness?
Not necessarily.
Not always.
The Production Pressure Cooker
The cost of visibility is often the pressure to produce. Once an artist achieves recognition—whether through a viral moment or years of groundwork—they face an invisible contract: Keep going. Keep feeding the machine. The gallery expects a new series. The label wants another hit. The followers demand content. And art, which once emerged from the deep well of inner necessity, risks becoming a product on a conveyor belt.
This production pressure can distort the joy of making. The page becomes a taskmaster, not a companion. Anxiety creeps in. Burnout becomes a regular guest. Worse, some lose their original reason for creating at all.
One poet told me they stopped writing after their second book because “everything started sounding like what people wanted to hear, not what I needed to say.” This is the quiet grief that haunts many successful artists: the fear of becoming a version of yourself that sells, rather than one that speaks.
Small Circles, Quiet Joys
And yet, in the margins of this industrialised art world, there are artists who operate with little fanfare—painters with day jobs, sculptors who never apply for residencies, musicians who play only for friends, dancers who move before dawn while the city sleeps. They may not have “made it” by conventional terms. But often, they make art that is alive—unburdened by expectation, full of idiosyncratic wonder.
Are these quieter practitioners happier? Not always. The longing for recognition, support, and freedom doesn’t disappear just because you’re unknown. But many find peace in a rhythm that is their own. They define success on different terms: depth, honesty, presence. And in doing so, they sidestep the trap of performance for performance’s sake.
The Double-Edged Dream
To long for success is human. To want your work to be seen, heard, appreciated—it’s a form of communication, after all. There’s nothing shallow in wanting your art to buy you time, space, and a decent standard of living. But the mythology of the “big break” can be dangerous if it becomes the only version of success we honour.
Because “making it” isn’t always the moment your name is in lights. Sometimes it’s when you get your mornings back. Sometimes it’s when someone you respect tells you your work moved them. Sometimes it’s when your kid starts drawing because they saw you drawing. Or when you finally stop comparing yourself to others, and remember why you started at all.
A Possible Reframing
What if we replaced the idea of “making it” with “making meaning”? What if the goal wasn’t escape or applause, but resonance? Not legacy, but intimacy?
This isn’t a rejection of ambition. It’s an invitation to loosen its grip. To stay curious. To stay close to the work. Success might come. It might not. But either way, the making remains. And that’s something sacred.
Final Thought
GAWP exists because creativity is not one thing—it’s many. It’s loud and quiet. Commercial and personal. Celebrated and ignored. But in every case, it’s a reaching out. A signal. A gesture toward something more.
Whether you’re creating for thousands or for no one at all: you’ve already “made it” the moment you made something. That’s where the real work begins—and maybe, just maybe, where the real happiness lives.