I asked Henrik Uldalen how he felt after his last exhibition sold out.
He smiled, but there was pain behind it.
The gallery is very pleased, but I'm not. I wish it had gone badly. When something I want to change goes well, it's a problem. After the exhibition, I felt empty and lost for months. I wandered about my studio, tidying up, cleaning, but doing nothing.
Phil Hale told me he was just trying things to see if they worked. Phil quit painting several times. Vincent Desiderio feels terrified and bored with himself.
Daily.
Lita Cabellut said:
I'm not going to help you get over this pain. This pain is something you'll always live with. And thanks to it, you'll become a great artist.
Four years. Hundreds of artists. Every mentor I've worked with admits to feeling like a fraud.
Every single one. At the highest intensity. (Our method for gathering such privileged information simply involves drinking beer with great artists. It works better than you'd think.)
Their Impostor Syndrome is proportional to their talent. So is yours.
So who do you think you are to believe you could be immune?
The Studio at 2am
You're alone. It's late. And yet someone is watching.
There's always someone watching. A teacher, a colleague, a gallery, your partner, someone from the past. Maybe someone from the future. Probably someone imaginary.
Their voices resound with good taste, professionalism, unforgiving quality control.
That's not how they would do it. That's not sophisticated enough. People will think I'm winging it. They'll know I don't belong here. It's been too long. I've lost it.
You've rehearsed this voice so many times you forgot it isn't yours.
It's a guard. And the guard is you.
Feeling like a fraud is comfortable. It liberates you from the responsibility of being brave.
More training. More study. More technique. One more course. One more book. Always one more thing between you and the real work.
Every course is another brick in the wall built around what you're afraid to actually do.
And it shows. In every safe choice, every corrected edge, every painting that looks good but says little. The audience can smell it. They may never name it, but they feel it.
Choose Your Price
Growing is painful. Being stuck is painful. Giving up is painful.
You're going to hurt either way. All you get to choose is what for.
And maybe you've chosen poorly.
Henrik, Phil, and Vincent all felt the same thing you feel. They painted anyway.
They're brave cowards. Afraid AND taking action at the same time.
Imagine you're the last person on the planet and whatever you make will vanish after you. For the first time, there's no pressure. Just you and the work.
If no one was watching, you'd make a different painting. You know which one is yours.
The fact that this hurts is the proof you're ready.
...And you know exactly what to paint.
You always have.
What you paint next is 1000% yours.
Some artists find their signal alone.
For the rest of us, there's a week on an island.
Hunter's Moon. Quarantine Experiment #7.
October 19–25, 2026. Lazaretto Island, Menorca.
7 days. 7 mentors. 63 artists.
Admission is curated. Phones are prohibited.
The program is secret
Carles Gomila. Menorca, 2026
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