The unending project of artmaking will, generally, fall short of its aims.
To make art is to plumb the poetry in tedium, to chase the impossibility of enduring beauty in a stricken universe, to probe the ineffable divinity of the flawed, if not the downright abject.
Wielding media to scratch at likenesses of the sublime and its twin contradictions often yields for the artmaker merely a roomful of desiccated proxies.

Art may never capture the diwine. Art may never come any closer than it has for the last 15,000 years towards palpably rendering the transcendent.
Art may always remain a finite, perishable frustration, clawed upon by possessed beings, never fully satisfied, yet never fully giving up on the window to a higher frame of seeing. As a reward, the desiccated proxies we cherish, treasure, casting, condemn or at least listen to and observe, offer a pained hope that we might somehow know above ourselves.