One paints for oneself: otherwise one would committ suicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long just trying to get something onto canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what is the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it's accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you're lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining room table. ....The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it, and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his feelings by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes, they just do.

— Somerset Maugham  

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