It was my family that wanted me to be a teacher. That was safe

Hear the confession of Josef Albers, master of color and discipline, who spoke thus of his own beginnings: “It was my family that wanted me to be a teacher. That was safe, you see. To be a painter was terrible.” In this brief utterance lies the eternal struggle between safety and risk, between duty to the expectations of others and the perilous calling of one’s own soul. It is the story of countless lives: the secure path urged by family and tradition, and the dangerous, uncertain path of the artist who dares to shape the world anew.

For the family, guardians of survival, often urge the path of safety. To be a teacher, in their eyes, was noble, steady, and respectable. The classroom promised stability, order, and bread upon the table. But to be a painter—this was to enter the wilderness. It was to live at the mercy of patrons, critics, and the fickle winds of fortune. To choose such a life seemed reckless, even terrible, for it offered no guarantees. Thus, Albers was torn between the voices of prudence and the fire of passion.

Yet history shows us that the world is moved not by the safe, but by the daring. Vincent van Gogh, dismissed and ridiculed, lived in poverty, his canvases unsold. To his family, too, his choice must have seemed terrible. Yet today his colors blaze brighter than any gold. Michelangelo, though commissioned by popes, endured years of torment upon scaffolds to bring forth visions that still shape the spirit of mankind. In every age, the painter, the poet, the dreamer, is called “terrible” because they reject safety and embrace uncertainty. But it is precisely from this peril that their greatness is born.

Albers himself, though pressed toward the safer path, transformed the very meaning of teacher and painter. He became both. He taught at the Bauhaus, at Black Mountain College, and at Yale, yet in all his teaching he was not merely safe. He dared to teach art as discipline, vision, and freedom. His paintings of color—his Homage to the Square—were not the works of one who surrendered to security, but of one who dared to listen to the voice of creativity, even when it clashed with expectation. Thus, he reconciled the two worlds: the safety of teaching became the vessel by which his dangerous art could live.

The deeper meaning of his words is this: families, societies, and even nations often value safety over daring, conformity over risk. Yet if all chose safety, the world would stagnate. The terrible path of the painter, the inventor, the seeker, is what brings progress, beauty, and vision into being. To live only by safety is to survive; to dare what seems terrible is to truly create.

What lesson, then, must we take? It is this: do not scorn the concern of your family, for their desire for safety is born of love. But neither should you bury the fire of your calling. If you are driven to paint, to write, to build, to dare, then accept that the path may seem terrible—but terrible only to those who fear uncertainty. To those who embrace it, it is the path of truth.

Therefore, O seekers, let Albers’ words guide you. Do not fear if your passion is deemed impractical, unsafe, or even terrible. For what is terrible to the cautious may be glorious to the daring. And if fate allows, weave the two together as Albers did: let your work sustain you, and let your art make you free. For in the end, safety builds walls, but daring builds worlds.