Thank you Einstein. For relativity. Because of you I can comfort myself with such terms as “relative success”, which is about as much success as my relative perspective will allow me to have. Before you, it was a world of absolutes. Which by no uncertain terms would mean that my success, at best, is still pending.

But this isn’t a world of absolutes. So my brain can bend just enough to tell myself, that yes, in my thirteen years of design – and eight of them being self-employed, I have achieved a certain level of relative success. And that’s despite the crusty appearance of my office studio. Despite my crusty appearance. And despite a few other crusty details that are none of your damn business.

Relative Success.

Truth is, absolute success is only a resume away. There’s probably some absolute truth to that. Lord knows if I threw in the towel and just went and got a damn job, I’d afford myself a few of those visible tokens that say to all onlookers “now there’s a successful man.” But my path is different. Not exactly sure what it is, yet. When checks come in the mail, I feel like an absolute businessman. When I re-invest those checks into my work, knowing that there will be little to no return, I feel like an absolute idiot.

But I also feel like an artist.

There’s a camaraderie in design that I don’t find as an artist. With design, I have people on my side. If no one else, I have the client. No matter how frustrating the client may be, in the end, they care about what I’m working on as much as I do. Sometimes moreso.

As an artist, I’m the only one who gives a damn. From what I understand, writers suffer the same fate. Tell someone about the book you’re writing, and the look in their eyes will make you wish you kept your mouth shut. God forbid something should come out of their mouth, because more than likely it will be some bromidic criticism that serves their need to be an authority on something they know nothing about.

The path of the artist is a narrow one. It’s wide enough for one companion, but unfortunately, few are up to the task. You, Dear Einstien, would know. Wouldn’t you?
So we artists are left with only a few tools for this long journey home: Our work, which will hopefully speak for itself, when we are gone and unable to speak for it. Our imagination, which will allow us to dream that behind our lonesome marching body is a magnificent parade. And last but not least, thanks to you, we have relativity. Because of you I can believe, for now, that I am a relatively good artist.