A lot of my stuff just wasn't saleable. I still don't do private

The words of Cornelia Parker, “A lot of my stuff just wasn’t saleable. I still don’t do private or corporate commissions. It becomes like interior design. I don’t enjoy it. The process makes me feel physically sick,” are the cry of an artist guarding her soul from the slow poison of compromise. In her lament, there is not disdain for beauty nor for the patron, but for the subtle death that comes when creation becomes commerce, when art bends its knee before demand rather than truth. To be saleable is not always to be true, and Parker’s sickness arises from the desecration of the sacred act of creation—when it is twisted to fit another’s desire, when it ceases to be a revelation of self and becomes decoration for another’s wall.

In the days of old, the poets of Greece and the sculptors of Rome knew this torment. The master Phidias, who carved the gods in marble, once labored not for the heavens but for the whims of kings. His chisel grew heavy; his divine forms, once radiant, became hollow effigies to power. Yet when he returned to craft the image of Athena Parthenos, not for coin but for reverence, his soul breathed again, and his name was sung through ages. The artist who serves truth becomes eternal; the one who serves fashion is forgotten like dust in a market stall.

Parker’s words speak not only of art, but of all human endeavor. The heart that gives itself over to what sells soon loses the fire that made it worthy of purchase in the first place. To create is to breathe life from the unseen into the seen. When the motive is purity, the work glows with spirit; when the motive is profit, the flame turns to smoke. Many in our age suffer this sickness—designers, writers, builders, even dreamers—because they have bartered their authenticity for applause, their vision for validation.

There is a story told of Vincent van Gogh, a man whose art no one wished to buy. He starved, was mocked, and painted by candlelight. Yet he painted as if the heavens burned through his soul. Each stroke was prayer, each color a heartbeat. He died poor, yet his spirit enriched the centuries to come. His refusal to make what others desired, his devotion to what his heart commanded—this is the same sacred defiance that Parker speaks of. It is the refusal to let creation become commodity, to let the muse become a servant of the marketplace.

To feel “physically sick” at the thought of bending one’s art to another’s will is not weakness but sensitivity of spirit. It is the sign of one whose inner compass is tuned to a higher note, who cannot bear to twist their truth for the comfort of others. The sickness is the body’s rebellion against spiritual betrayal. Just as the prophet cannot speak lies without trembling, so the artist cannot craft falsehood without suffering. There is in Parker’s words a call for all creators to guard the sanctity of their process, for once that sanctity is lost, the work becomes lifeless, no matter how pleasing to the eye.

The lesson, then, is as old as the hills and as fierce as the sea: Do not sell your soul for silver. What is made in truth will outlast empires; what is made for gold will rot in a vault. The artist must endure the hunger, the misunderstanding, the loneliness, for these are the companions of integrity. The world may not understand the value of a thing born from pure heart, but time will remember. The gods themselves smile upon those who choose authenticity over adulation.

Therefore, let each of us look inward and ask: Do I create because I must, or because it pleases others? Let our labor be an offering, not a transaction. If you write, write with the trembling hand of honesty; if you build, build as though eternity will dwell within your walls. Refuse the commission that deadens your spirit. Pursue the work that makes you feel alive, even if it earns you nothing but peace. For in that peace lies the immortality of the soul—and the true meaning of art.