You have to do what you need to do as an artist. You have to have

“You have to do what you need to do as an artist. You have to have that courage.” Thus spoke Liz Phair, a voice of raw honesty and fearless creation — a woman who stood before the tides of expectation and refused to bow. In her words lies the ancient call of all who dare to make art: that the artist’s first and truest duty is not to please, but to speak truth, not to follow, but to create, and not to conform, but to have courage. For to be an artist is to walk the edge of the unknown — to reveal what others hide, to feel what others fear, and to offer that vulnerability to the world.

Phair’s words were born from the fire of her own experience. In the early 1990s, when she released her groundbreaking album Exile in Guyville, her songs broke the silence of polite convention. They were unapologetically bold, confessional, and defiant — the voice of a woman refusing to apologize for her truth. She faced criticism and controversy, but also admiration from those who saw her work as liberation in sound. To “do what you need to do as an artist,” she discovered, was not merely an act of creation — it was an act of courage. It meant standing alone, misunderstood, yet unwavering, trusting that honesty itself is art’s most sacred form.

This truth is not new. The ancients, too, revered the artist as both creator and rebel. Socrates, condemned for corrupting the youth with truth, spoke not what the people wished to hear, but what their souls needed. Michelangelo, when he carved the Pietà, defied the perfection demanded by the Church and followed instead the vision burning within his heart. And Van Gogh, painting in madness and isolation, left behind no wealth, no fame, but a universe of color that would one day heal countless hearts. Each of these souls, like Phair, knew that to create truly is to risk everything — reputation, comfort, even peace — in pursuit of the truth within.

Art is born not from safety, but from bravery. The act of creation is an act of defiance against silence. When Phair says, “You have to have that courage,” she speaks to every artist who has ever felt fear whisper in the heart — the fear of judgment, of failure, of not being understood. Yet courage, she reminds us, is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to move through it. The painter who dares to reveal pain on the canvas, the writer who names the unspoken sorrow, the musician who turns heartbreak into song — each performs a sacred act. Through courage, art becomes more than expression; it becomes transformation.

There is also a deeper message in Phair’s declaration — that the artist’s duty is not external but internal. To “do what you need to do” means to remain true to the inner voice, even when it contradicts the voices of the crowd. The artist must be loyal to vision, not approval; to authenticity, not applause. Many have lost their way by chasing acceptance rather than truth. But those who endure — like Frida Kahlo, painting her own suffering into immortality, or Bob Dylan, who turned his back on fame to follow the evolution of his spirit — are those who have found the courage to obey the call of their own art.

To create, then, is to live as both warrior and witness. The artist must fight the forces that would dull the soul — fear, conformity, mediocrity — and witness the beauty and sorrow of the world with open eyes. This dual calling requires courage, for it demands both strength and surrender. Strength to stand alone, and surrender to what the heart reveals. The true artist does not create for reward, but because creation itself is life’s most urgent necessity. Without it, the soul starves. With it, even pain becomes purpose.

Let this be the lesson, then, for all who would create or live meaningfully: have courage. Do not wait for permission to speak, to paint, to write, to sing. The world will always resist what is new, what is raw, what is real — but art was never meant to please the world. It was meant to awaken it. Follow the voice within, however trembling it may be, for that is where truth begins. Let your work — whether of words, deeds, or dreams — be your offering to the divine spark within you.

Thus, the wisdom of Liz Phair stands as both a shield and a flame. It tells us that courage is the foundation of all true art, and that authenticity is the artist’s greatest victory. For in the end, to create with courage is to live fully — to declare to the universe, “This is who I am.” And when one dares to live and create from that place of truth, they become not just an artist, but a torchbearer for all who seek freedom through expression.