" But you're an artist!"

This phrase still rings in my ears every time someone says it during my punch needle classes. And every time I feel a little thrill inside, because that person they see as an "artist" is simply me: someone who wakes up in the morning, drinks coffee, has doubts, misses stitches, undoes the work done, and starts again.

Yet there's something in that moment, something beyond a simple compliment. It reflects a deeply held belief in all of us: the tendency to transform others into something greater than they are, while we remain anchored to our daily "normality."

The myth of innate talent

When we look at the work of someone we admire, we tend to construct a narrative: "She was born this way," "She has a natural gift," "I could never do that." It's as if there's an invisible barrier between "us" and "them," between those who can and those who can't, between artists and ordinary people.

But the truth is much simpler and, paradoxically, much more encouraging.

That person we see today creating marvelous works simply did one thing: he started. And then he continued. Day after day, stitch after stitch, mistake after mistake. There was no divine illumination, no magical moment when the skills appeared out of nowhere.

The strength of daily commitment

During my courses, I see this awareness dawn in the eyes of the participants. At first, they look at me as if I were the custodian of inaccessible secrets. Then, as we progress together, as I share my mistakes, as I show the projects I've had to redo three times, something changes.

They realize that behind every "perfect" work are hours of practice, failed attempts, and frustrations overcome. That the fluidity in the needle's movement isn't magic, but muscle memory built through repetition. That the seemingly natural color choice is actually the result of trial and error, and adjustments.

The difference between me and those just starting out isn't talent. It's time. It's the energy I've dedicated to this passion. It's the perseverance in returning to the needle and loom even when the results didn't satisfy me.

Dismantling the altar of others

There's something liberating in realizing that the people we admire are just people. With their doubts, their bad days, their moments of discouragement. They don't exist on a higher plane of existence, they don't possess special powers.

They simply chose to invest their time and energy in something they were passionate about. They transformed curiosity into study, study into practice, and practice into expertise.

When we dismantle the altar on which we've placed others, we don't diminish them. On the contrary, we make them human, accessible, attainable. And this transforms everything: from "I could never" to "maybe, with time, I could too."

The weight of our expectations

We're often our own worst critics. We look at our first attempt and compare it to the work of those who have been practicing for years. It's as if a toddler were to compare himself to a marathon runner and conclude that he wasn't cut out for walking.

Whenever I feel inadequate, I think back to my first jobs. I still cherish them, not out of nostalgia, but as a reminder. They remind me that every expert was once a beginner, that every master had a first day.

The courage to begin

Perhaps the real difference between those we call "artists" and those who call themselves "not talented" is simply the courage to begin. And then the courage to continue, despite the mistakes, despite the frustration, despite the little inner voice that whispers, "You're not good enough."

When someone in my classes tells me, "You're an artist," and then adds, "I'll never be one," I wish I could instantly convey this awareness: there's no exclusive club of special people. There are only people who have decided not to give up on their first, imperfect attempts.

As the needle passes across the canvas, as the threads intertwine to form patterns and textures, I often think about how metaphorical this practice is. Each stitch is a small act of faith in the final result, even when we can't yet clearly see it.

Perhaps this is what punch needlework teaches us, beyond technique: that beauty comes from the accumulation of small gestures repeated with intention. That you don't have to be special to create something beautiful. You just have to be present, be consistent, be kind to your mistakes.

And perhaps, in the end, this is all that distinguishes an "artist" from an ordinary person: the ability to see beauty in the process, not just the result. The patience to let time and practice transform uncertainty into confidence, inexperience into expertise.

Because all of us, point by point, are artists of our own lives.