Use Your Delusion

June 1, 2025

Before an artist reaches any kind of peak—mastery, success, recognition, or even personal satisfaction—there’s something far less visible they have to rely on: delusion.

Not the wild, disconnected kind, but a quiet, stubborn kind of belief that insists you’re already great, even when the work says otherwise. Even when your skills are raw, your career’s stalled, and no one knows your name. It’s the feeling that, somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, you’re meant to become the artist you see in your mind. That belief, irrational as it may seem, is not a weakness. It’s a tool. One you have to learn to use.

In the beginning, the gap between what you want to create and what you’re capable of is huge. You can see what greatness looks like—maybe in the work of artists you admire, maybe in your own mind’s eye—but your hands haven’t caught up. That space, between vision and ability, is where most people give up. It’s uncomfortable. It’s discouraging. And it doesn’t go away quickly.

To survive that stretch, you need something to carry you across it. A belief in progress, sure—but more than that, a belief in your potential, your inevitability. You have to hold the idea that you are already, in some invisible way, the artist you're trying to become. That’s where delusion turns into fuel. It lets you show up with the posture of a master, even when you’re fumbling. It gives you the nerve to keep going through rejection, through mediocrity, through the long silence that often comes before recognition.

A lot of the greatest artists had to fake their own belief before the world gave them permission. Van Gogh died in obscurity. Basquiat made work with the force of someone who didn’t wait for the art world to catch up. What carried them wasn’t validation—it was conviction. A belief so deep it bordered on fantasy.

And that’s the trick: to move as if you’ve already arrived. Not out of arrogance, but out of clarity. You imagine the version of you who’s already doing the work at the highest level—and then you make decisions from that place. You speak with intention. You create with confidence. You act like you belong. Because becoming isn’t something that happens in one leap—it’s something you build, moment by moment, by carrying that future version of yourself into the present.

The alternative is doubt. And doubt kills art.

If you wait for permission—if you need someone else to believe in you first—you might wait forever. The gatekeepers might never open the door. The audience might not show up. The work might never feel finished. If you don’t believe you’re growing into something meaningful, no one else will either.

You have to see the summit before you've climbed it. You have to walk into rooms you haven’t been invited into yet and act like you belong. Not out of delusion that denies the work, but one that fuels it.

Of course, unchecked belief without action becomes arrogance—or worse, complacency. This kind of delusion has to be paired with effort. You don’t get to think your way into greatness. You have to work for it. The belief is the spark. The work is the fire. The delusion gets you to the studio, but discipline keeps you there.

When you use it right, that quiet, persistent belief becomes your strongest ally. It gets you through the rough drafts, the bad reviews, the long stretches when nothing feels like it’s landing. It reminds you that the next piece might be the one. That showing up is the win. That acting like an artist is how you become one—long before anyone gives you the title.

So use it. Let it move you. Walk into your studio like it’s yours. Speak your ideas like they matter. Make your art like you’ve already arrived.

Because, in all the ways that count—you have.