All of the artists had been outsiders. They had not been part of a scene. But when you grouped them, they looked like a constellation—like lone suns, hung in infinite darkness, that from afar revealed themselves to be part of the same pattern. It was a pattern of people with a compulsive need to look at the landscapes around them, at their small life worlds, and to capture what they saw. I imagined myself and Johanna as a part of the constellation and took comfort in that.
I think you should read this essay by Henrik Karlsson about a sculptor obsessed with his art.
If I were Henrik I'd just be throwing around some abstract statements, but he takes abstractions and manages to weave them into a neat, little and beautiful story and that I think is the most addictive thing about his writing.