The critic didn’t like it.
The critic called you names.
The critic accused you of something you weren’t aiming to do.
Flinch. Step back. Lick your wounds.
But don’t you ever, ever, stop. Don’t stop from expressing what’s in your heart. Don’t ever let the critic, the spectator, the bystander, the observer, the jealous, or the envious, stand in the way of your art.
Fuck them if they don’t get the joke. It’s not for them.
Some will like it. Some won’t. But, someone else is always waiting. Waiting to discover you. Waiting to be led by your words. Waiting to be inspired by your images. Waiting to see the part inside you that, somehow, miraculously, without effort or will, touches them to follow you in your wake.
Lead on “MacDuff, and damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!'”
Oh, and listen to Teddy:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”