Why look at the veins in the butterfly's wing? Why measure how tall a single blade of grass is? Why try to recall the sound of the crickets? Is there any sense to become happy from pouring out precious water upon your feet? Why return to the crossing roads of wonder?
No, I don't know why I carry on making art, even after constantly reading from the paper that the funding of any smaller cultural projects that have even a little bit of soul are being cut, that people no longer read, that it's better not to know or to see or to sense or to love things that are not profitable, just as the lamenting voices desiring a life with immeasurable significance turns into a desolate background noise.
Even though I cannot promise to be excellent, flawless, sovereign, to make a living out of art or science in a world of alligators biting each other when the last piece of meat handed out with a white plastic glove has been seized by the fittest, I can't stop. I will rather become one of the numbers in some grim statistics, the comfortingly small percentage to all not included in it, "one of the minority".
I just want to ask, why do you do it?