Every artist eventually paints their last painting, sculpts their last statue, composes their last symphony. It is inevitable. Part of being finite. Part of being human.
My daughter used to excitedly paint and draw new works for me on a regular basis. She knew they would be welcomed with smiles and hugs and fanfare. She knew they would be prominently displayed on the walls of my office or on the refrigerator at home. She knew they would be shown to all of my visitors and discussed with pride.
It has been several years since my little artist created for me. The pieces that I have collected over the years are more precious to me than anyone could imagine. Well, anyone who has never had their child create a masterpiece for them. It's not the composition, the color palette, the brush work, or the complexity. It is all about the love and the giving and the sharing. I miss new creations from my Picasso, but I still have a childhood's worth of love in front of my eyes.