Before then - you paint something, case closed. You go back to your studio, and your Mona Lisa is hung above the cot in the del Giocondo's second bedroom.
After then - you declare yourself an artist, prove it with an exhibition,and forever after, journalists want to know what you think about Brexit.
But can you get them to look at the pictures?
I was thinking about that as I sat outside with a mug of tea first thing. The World was (is) still tied up to Queen's Wharf, where it's been since the lockdown started, and red-and-white tugs were towing, very slowly, a big grey naval vessel across the view.
I came inside and turned on the radio. A Senior Arts Administrator, didn't catch his name, was talking about saving Theatre. Not any particular theatre, you understand, but Theatre. Not some travelling band of thespians who'd run out of greasepaint, but - yeah.
Theatre is in trouble, apparently. And this bloke is going to save it - or, from the gloomy way he was talking, fail to save it and blame the government.
I know that there are people out there writing plays. I know that there are people staging plays.
Just as I know that there are people out there painting pictures, writing novels and poetry, drawing and writing graphic novels, making art generally. Making films.
I don't know what any of them think about Brexit, and if I had the chance, I probably wouldn't bother to ask them how they feel about being rescued, or not, by a Senior Arts Administrator.
I'd ask to see their work, though.