Why do professional artists make art?

I don’t mean in some big, existential way. I mean literally: why this piece, right now?

Being an artist is a job. But it’s not a job with office hours or a boss breathing down your neck. Or is it?

It’s easy to imagine otherwise. If you’re successful, you’ve got the fancy loft, the beach house, a handful of rail-thin assistants with eyebrow rings. You can roll out of bed, wander into the studio, scratch your butt, and make whatever’s on your mind. Pretty cool, right?

But is that how it really works?

Then I watched a movie about Jean-Michel Basquiat that blew a hole in that theory.

I’d always imagined Jean-Michel drifting between nightclubs, dinners at the Odeon with Andy Warhol, generally being groovy. Sure, he left a boatload of paintings —but wasn’t that just what spilled out of him between parties?

Turns out, not quite.

There’s a scene where Basquiat is in Italy, supposedly on a break. And then he gets a call: there’s a gallery show coming up fast. So he has a pile of canvases, stretcher bars, brushes, and paint shipped in. Locks himself in a room and works around the clock. In about a week, he knocked out a staggering body of work.

Not because inspiration struck. Not because he felt like it. Because he had a deadline.

That’s the key insight.

Creativity is an infinite playground, but it thrives on limits. And nothing limits you quite like a circle on the calendar that says: deliver.

Back in my advertising days, deadlines ruled our lives. We didn’t clock in at 9:00—we were “creative,” so we showed up at 10—but we showed up. Some days we lounged around flipping through magazines, playing practical jokes, watching videos. But once a pitch date was looming, the hammer came down. The days got longer, the tension thicker, and all-nighters weren’t uncommon. Without those deadlines, I doubt we’d have made much of anything.

When I created my sketchbook journaling course, I set myself another: fill an entire sketchbook in a month. Even though I had Covid. Even though painters were tromping through my house, sanding and spraying and generally making life chaotic. Every day, I showed up and drew—not because I felt inspired, but because the course was launching soon, and I needed examples.

And then there’s this essay. Every Friday, it goes out. Nobody’s paying me. I could skip a week, make excuses, take a break. But I don’t. That self-imposed deadline keeps me at my desk, writing.

Now, I realize you may not be a professional artist, and figure no one is checking on whether you’ve drawn today. But you can still set your own deadlines and reap the benefits.

Last week, I went to SketcherFest in Seattle. I knew I’d be seeing friends and fellow artists, and I’d have to show a sketchbook or two to fit in. The problem? I hadn’t done much urban sketching lately. Phoenix in July doesn’t exactly invite long afternoons on a park bench with a pen and watercolor set.

So, for a week beforehand, I cranked out drawings—page after page, filling my sketchbooks so I’d have something fresh to share. Not because I felt the urge. Because I had a deadline.

My drawing always leaps forward on trips. In Rome, Paris, Beijing, I kept a travel journal and drew every morning because I knew I was only there for a week or two. It’s a deadline. And it lights a fire.

Thousands of people join me and JJ every Thursday morning for Draw with Me. They don’t wait until they feel like drawing. They show up because it’s on the calendar. That consistency—that weekly deadline—makes them better artists.

Set yourself a deadline and see what happens. You can decide to draw a self-portrait every day for a month. Post to Instagram for two weeks straight. Make 31 ink drawings in Inktober. Promise everyone on your holiday list a piece of original art.

When you emerge from a stretch like that, you’ll have new skills, fresh discoveries, and maybe a few surprises about what you’re capable of.

People often say, “I just don’t have time to draw.” But we all have the same 24 hours each day. A deadline carves out the time for you.

You may not end up the next Basquiat, locking yourself in an Italian villa and pounding out masterpieces. But you’ll make art. More art, better art. And that’s what matters.

Your pal,

Danny