Part 6: How to Place Art in Real Life

Support Systems & Sustainable Structures

1 — When art can’t immediately bring financial returns, where does your sense of security come from?

First, we need to recognize a reality: while a small number of artists do earn substantial income through their art, the structure—just like acting, music, or writing—is a pyramid. Only a tiny fraction achieve major commercial success.

When art becomes a commodity, its value shows up when a painting is collected, sold at auction, acquired by a museum, or when an artist receives commissions for public art. But these are project-based, not a stable long-term income stream.

If we try to rely on art as our sole financial safety, it becomes very difficult and often disappointing. And this has less to do with talent or effort and more to do with timing, networks, geography, race, and countless other factors.

For me, art is where my spiritual sense of security comes from, but I do not place my financial sense of security on it. At the same time, one advantage of an art practice is the flexibility of time. Once you have a continuous creative practice and a sense of what you want to make, you can organize your time freely.

You don’t need to be in the studio from 9 to 5 every day to be an artist. Even if work or family means you only get small pockets of time, you can still be an artist—what matters is the continuity of thinking and making, not the number of hours.

2 — How do you balance “work — life — creation”?

For me, balance begins with putting sleep, health, and diet first. I need a lot of sleep—around 9–10 hours—and I’m willing to spend time preparing healthy meals. Only with a stable physical state can I fully engage in work and creation.

Of course, I didn’t always understand this. Early on, I treated work as everything, trying to prove my ability to others. But overworking left me exhausted and numb; even if I could buy anything or go anywhere, I wasn’t genuinely happy.

Later I realized: there’s no need to conform to the stereotype of the “starving artist” or tragic Van Gogh archetype. The artists around me live in very different ways—some party all night, others maintain very structured routines. I choose to stay close to the latter. It’s not a moral judgment; it’s simply what supports my own wellbeing.

Now I believe the most important things are: good health, family stability, and emotional well-being. With these foundations, I gain the courage and energy to face challenges in both work and creation. This may not be everyone’s path, but through trial and error, I found what truly matters to me.

3 — How do you view “stability” versus “risk”?

To me, stability and risk aren’t opposites. Some choices that seem stable are, in the long run, full of risk; while some choices that look risky might open far greater possibilities.

Recently, I spoke with a friend who left Wall Street quantitative finance to start a commercial real estate venture. He said that often, not choosing—just continuing the same pattern—is itself dangerous, because you might miss the broader possibilities of your life.

It made me reflect on how, in a world reshaped by rapid advancements in AI, industries are constantly shifting. The ability to learn quickly, adapt, and be flexible is more important than ever.

When I was in university and grad school, computer science was unquestionably the “best” direction—coding was the default path to upward mobility and high returns. Today, AI tools can replace the work of an entire team, and the landscape has dramatically changed.

The world keeps changing—from the rise of social media, to the pandemic, to AI transforming every profession. No one can predict the future.

Therefore, I believe all creators—not just artists—should build personal brands early and develop self-reliance. “Risk-taking” shouldn’t be impulsive; it should be calculated risk. When making decisions, I ask myself: Can I tolerate the worst-case scenario? If the upside is high and the downside manageable, then it’s worth trying.

I once heard a great line:
When you’re stuck choosing between two paths, pick the harder one.
The more challenging road is usually the one that expands your capacity over time.

4 — A moment when you almost gave up, but didn’t?

Yes, there was such a moment. A few years ago, I witnessed some very unpleasant behind-the-scenes dealings in the art world. I wasn’t personally involved, but observing certain galleries and professionals behaving in hypocritical or manipulative ways deeply discouraged me. I wondered whether I had wasted years of effort investing in such an opaque industry. I nearly wanted to walk away.

Several things helped me stay. One was seeing friends in the Bay Area run nonprofit cultural and art events. That made me think: instead of focusing on galleries, collectors, and industry games, maybe I should ask a more essential question—What kind of person do I want to be? What knowledge can I share with more people?

I realized art shouldn’t be a game for a small circle. It should be like music or literature—accessible to many. So I began volunteering: leading museum visits, organizing talks, inviting artists to speak. Through these experiences, I saw that art can be warm and welcoming, not intimidating.

More importantly, my mindset changed from passive to active. Instead of being upset by the industry’s flaws, I asked: “If I don’t like this system, what can I create instead?” By building the version of the art world I believed in, I regained motivation—and met many like-minded artists, curators, and art lovers along the way.

5 — How do you deal with comparison—seeing others move faster or further than you?

There’s a funny saying: the most painful comparisons are with people closest to you. We don’t compare ourselves to Buffett, but we do compare ourselves to friends.

For me, two thoughts help.

First, from a practical standpoint: when the people around me succeed, they’re more likely to bring opportunities my way too. This sounds selfish, but it’s true and mutually beneficial.

Second, comparison is internal consumption. I have a friend who, from the outside, is very successful—exhibitions in major galleries in London, Europe, Sweden; collectors beginning to acquire his work. But he constantly compares himself with “genius” twenty-year-olds collected by big museums and feels inadequate.

It’s like someone whose company got acquired envying someone else who IPO’d. Comparison never ends. It drains attention and intelligence. Time spent on jealousy is time stolen from making work.

So when I see someone moving faster, I choose to approach them, learn from them sincerely, and ask how they did it. If they aren’t willing to share, I understand their character. If they are, even better. I congratulate them wholeheartedly and learn whatever I can.

6 — If creation is a marathon, how do you maintain stamina?

As someone who has run a full marathon, I feel this deeply.

First, training is essential.
Before my marathon, I ran regularly, but more importantly, I set milestone goals. My first goal was simply to complete a half marathon. After that, I told myself: every additional step is a new breakthrough. This mindset—“every step is progress”—is also crucial in creative work.

Second, details determine outcomes.
During one race, I saw a woman whose shoes were so blistered she could barely move. It made me realize: we spend so much time training, but small things—whether your shoes fit, whether your clothes are comfortable, whether you slept well, what you ate—can directly affect the final result.

Art is the same. Creation isn’t separate from life; it is life. To create sustainably, you must take care of your body and mind: movement, healthy food, rest. A healthy physical state gives me resilience and courage to face challenges in both life and art.