The Artist is the Child Who Survived
I went down to the beach this morning. Had a coffee. Watched a couple of people out on the choppy water.
They were standing on boards, holding small sails with both hands. No mast or lines. Just the weight of their bodies and the shape of the wind.
It looked like they were winging it. Literally. It turns out it is actually a thing: wing foiling. You stand on a board and hold an inflatable wing, like a small untethered sail. It looks strange at first, like someone has stepped into the sea with the wrong equipment and decided to carry on anyway.
And then, somehow, it becomes quite magic.
It made me think about the line: “The artist is the child who survived.”
The source is uncertain. It circulates in different forms, sometimes attributed to Rilke, sometimes to Nietzsche, sometimes without a source at all. But the thought remains useful.
The artist is not only defined by talent. They are also defined by what they have stayed connected to: sensitivity, play, perception, pain, wonder, attention. Something remains available to them that many people lose contact with, bury, split off, or project elsewhere.
Art becomes the structure that allows that connection to continue.
That is what I often look for in artists: not innocence, but continuity. A serious relationship with the part of the self that still feels, notices, tests, makes, and responds.
In that sense, the artist is not escaping childhood. They are carrying forward what was most alive in it, giving it form, discipline, and a language others can meet.
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