Why Are Some People So Good at Art? Others Are Just Angry.

People are strange. We chase perfection but despise the perfect. We long for meaning but reject anything that takes too much effort to understand. We admire talent but call it unfair when we don’t have it.

Some people, though, seem to have something others don’t—a kind of magic in their hands. They make colors sing on a canvas, carve emotions into stone, and summon entire worlds with words. Others, however, watch from the sidelines, fists clenched, feeling like something was taken from them before they ever had a chance.

23rd Street—There is a girl who draws birds every day at exactly 4:00 pm.

She sits on a bench near the old bookstore, sketchbook open, a charcoal pencil dancing between her fingers. She draws

I've been watching her for a while. Not in a creepy way, just—

No one knows her name, but people call her Avi, short for aviary. She’s maybe

I tried drawing once. I remember how my pencil scratched the paper, my fingers stiff and awkward. The lines were ugly, clumsy. I got frustrated and to

But Avi? Her hands move as if the page itself is guiding her. The lines flow, seamless and effortless. It’s unfair.

One day, I finally approac

"Why are you so good at this?"

She looked at me, blinking as if I had asked why the sky was

"Because I do it every day," she

"That’s not an answer."

She tilted her head. "Then what kind of answer do you want?"

Something inside me boiled. I wanted her to say, I was born with it. IIt’s a gift. I wanted her to

"What do I have to do to draw like you?"

She tapped her pencil against the page, thinking. "Draw a thousand birds."

Talent or Repetition?

I went home that night and started.

The first bird looked like a lopsided fish.

The second looked worse.

By the tenth, I was gripping my pencil so hard my knuckles turned white.

By the hundredth, I wanted to throw the whole sketchbook away.

Avi kept drawing. I kept watching. I kept failing.

I started reading about it—why some people are so naturally good at art while others struggle. I learned about neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to form new neural connections through repetition. Scientists say that talent isn’t just about being born gifted; it’s about how much time you spend training your brain.

But there’s more to it.

There’s a theory called the rage-to-mastery effect. Some people get angry when they fail, but instead of quitting, they turn that frustration into practice. They push harder. They refuse to lose.

And then there are people like me—people who get angry and stop.

Avi never got angry. She just kept drawing.

"Not all birds fly."

By the time I reached my five-hundredth bird, something strange happened.

I stopped feeling frustrated.

The lines started to feel… natural. My hand didn’t fight me as much. I wasn’t good yet, not like Avi, but I wasn’t failing either.

One evening, as I sat beside her, sketching another awkward bird, she glanced over.

"Better," she said.

It was the first compliment she had ever given me.

I hesitated before asking, "Do you ever get tired of drawing birds?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "Not all birds fly."

I didn’t understand what she meant until later.

Art isn’t about perfect technique. It’s not about talent. It’s about patience, persistence—willingness to throw yourself at failure until failure gets tired of you.

Some people are good at art because they don’t let frustration win.

Others are just angry

And anger alone never creates anything.