An artist must create. If she doesn't, she will become a menace

Hear now the words of Maria Semple, whose saying cuts to the heart of human nature: “An artist must create. If she doesn’t, she will become a menace to society.” This is no idle phrase, but a warning forged in the furnace of truth. For the artist is not like others, her soul is a vessel brimming with visions, colors, and sounds that press against the walls of her being. To silence her hand is to shackle the wind, to dam the river, to bottle the lightning. Such forces, if denied their rightful passage, do not vanish—they erupt in chaos, turning against the world that sought to contain them.

The origin of this truth lies deep within the nature of creation itself. Since the dawn of time, humankind has been given the gift of shaping—shaping stone into tools, words into poetry, pigments into images that echo the soul. Those who carry the fire of artistry bear it not as a choice, but as a destiny. When denied, the fire consumes them from within, and its smoke darkens all around them. Thus, Semple speaks with wisdom: creation is not mere pastime, but necessity, as vital to the artist as air to the lungs and bread to the body.

Look to history, and you will see the proof of her words. Vincent van Gogh, tormented and restless, poured his anguish onto canvas with strokes of flame and turbulence. When his hand was steady, his soul was momentarily at peace, and the world was blessed with “Starry Night.” Yet when creation was stripped from him by poverty, rejection, and inner torment, despair consumed him, and society witnessed the unraveling of a spirit too vast to be confined. His life stands as both triumph and warning: that an artist creating is a healer of the world, but an artist silenced may descend into shadow.

For the artist holds a strange power: she communes with what others cannot see. Her eyes perceive the hidden beauty of decay, the secret rhythm of sorrow, the silent laughter of the stars. When she creates, she translates this mystery into forms that uplift, challenge, or awaken the people. When she does not, the unexpressed vision festers, turning bitter, perhaps destructive. What could have been a song becomes a scream; what could have been a mural becomes a wound. Thus, the menace Semple warns of is not malice, but misdirection—the corruption of unused genius.

Yet do not mistake her warning as applying only to the painter, the poet, or the musician. For every soul bears a measure of artistry. The craft of a carpenter, the innovation of a thinker, the tenderness of a gardener—these too are acts of creation. Each person must honor their inner artist, or risk becoming restless, bitter, and burdensome to their kin. For creation is the birthright of all, not the privilege of a few.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: creation is salvation. To live fully, one must make, shape, bring forth something that was not there before. If you feel the stirrings of vision in your chest, heed them. Write your words, though no one may read them. Paint your colors, though no gallery may hang them. Sing your song, though no audience may applaud. In the act itself is the release, the healing, the fulfillment of destiny.

And in your daily life, cultivate the habit of creation. Each morning, give a few moments to shape something—an idea, a sketch, a plan, even a meal crafted with care. When the storm of frustration gathers, let it pour onto the page, the canvas, the clay. Do not wait for perfection, for perfection is the lie that chains the artist’s hand. Instead, honor the urgency of the soul, and let creation flow as naturally as breath.

For in creating, you are not only saving yourself—you are blessing the world. Remember Semple’s warning: if the artist does not create, she may become a menace. But if she does, she becomes a prophet, a healer, a bringer of light. Let your creations, however humble, stand as beacons for those who come after you. For in every brushstroke, every verse, every melody, lies the eternal truth: that the human spirit was born not to wither in silence, but to sing.