Toy Soldiers was my introduction to film. I certainly didn't

"Toy Soldiers was my introduction to film. I certainly didn't think I was doing art by any stretch of the imagination." These words spoken by Tim Robbins reveal the humbling and often unexpected nature of the creative journey. Robbins, reflecting on his early days in film, speaks not of grandeur or self-awareness, but of the humble beginning of an artist's path. His words highlight an important truth: the beginnings of any craft—whether in art, science, or any other endeavor—are often unremarkable by the standards we later set for ourselves. It is through these modest origins that the seed of creativity is planted, eventually growing into something far greater than initially imagined.

In the ancient world, great minds and artists did not start their journey with greatness or fame. Consider the story of Socrates, who was born not into privilege but into a world of commonality. He did not set out to shape Western philosophy, nor did he imagine that his name would echo through the centuries. Like Robbins, Socrates began humbly, not seeking to make a mark on the world but simply to seek truth and engage in dialogue with those around him. The true lesson of Socrates' life is that greatness is not always about the grandiose but about the deep, steady commitment to one’s craft, no matter how modest its beginnings.

This theme of humble beginnings is woven into the fabric of history. Michelangelo, the great Renaissance artist, did not begin his journey as the towering figure we know today. His first forays into art were simple, focused on mastering techniques, learning from his environment, and working under mentors. He did not immediately perceive himself as an artist who would define an entire era. It was only through persistent dedication and the imagination that grew from his early works that he ultimately created masterpieces such as the David and the Sistine Chapel. Much like Robbins in Toy Soldiers, Michelangelo’s initial steps were not driven by the desire to create art but to simply learn and grow within his field.

Robbins’ statement also reflects the humility inherent in the artist’s path. The belief that one is not doing art, even when one is engaging in an inherently creative act, speaks to the ancient understanding that art is not always a conscious pursuit of beauty or transcendence. Rather, it is the act of creation itself—the decision to take what is ordinary and shape it into something meaningful—that forms the basis of all artistic endeavors. The ancient Greeks understood this principle, seeing art not as a separate endeavor but as an essential part of life—a medium through which one could communicate the deepest parts of the soul, but often unknowingly.

Consider the works of Shakespeare, whose early career was filled with the modest task of writing plays for a local theater, catering to common people with stories of kings, lovers, and knaves. At the time, Shakespeare did not see himself as the immortal playwright he would become. His plays were written for entertainment, to captivate the audience, and to earn a living. Yet, through sheer craft, his imagination transformed these humble beginnings into works that would change the world forever. Just as Robbins did not initially set out to create art, Shakespeare did not begin with the intention to write masterpieces; it was through continual effort, growth, and engagement with the craft that he unknowingly achieved greatness.

This idea—of art being born from ordinary beginnings—is crucial to understanding the nature of creation. Art is not always the result of deliberate intention to create something that will be celebrated as immortal. Sometimes, as Robbins suggests, it starts as something much smaller—a learning experience, a personal challenge, or even a means to make a living. It is only through the ongoing development of one’s skill and the expansion of one’s imagination that the potential for art arises. Creativity, then, is not reserved for the few who set out to be recognized as artists, but for anyone willing to engage with the process, to explore, to make mistakes, and to learn from them.

For those listening, the lesson is clear: do not wait for grand inspiration or for the world to tell you that you are an artist. As Robbins humbly acknowledges, it is in the process of creating—not the end result—that the true value lies. Start where you are. Engage with what you love, and let your imagination flow without the expectation of immediate recognition. Even in the simplest tasks, there is the possibility of creating something that speaks to the heart and resonates across time. Like Robbins, we all begin somewhere—often in places that feel insignificant—but if we continue with passion, dedication, and openness to growth, we may find ourselves creating works that transcend the limits of our original vision.

Let us, therefore, embrace the path of the artist as one of humility, learning, and growth. Art is not reserved for those who are born into fame or fortune. It belongs to all who are willing to engage with their own creativity and follow their instincts, no matter how small the steps may seem at the start. Just as Socrates did not begin as a philosopher and Shakespeare did not know he would become the greatest playwright, we, too, can begin our journeys in places of modesty. It is through persistent effort, guided by imagination, that we find our path, and through this path, we bring our ideas to life. Art is not something we set out to claim—it is something that emerges through our devotion to the process of creation itself.