A painter by any other name:

 "You call yourself a painter?
 You don't even make your own canvas,
 how can you call yourself a painter if you dont stretch your own canvas and build your own frame?"

So away you go,
as if possessed,
the word and title of "painter" has consumed you,
and so you learn all the techniques
and all the secrets of frame building and canvas stretching.

 "Yes yes, nice canvas,
 but how can you call yourself a "painter" when you don't even make your own paints!"
 How preposterous!"

Your face contorts to a snarl,
how COULD you call yourself a painter, when you don't even make your own paints!
Again, possessed, fixated, and single minded,
you dive into the mysteries of colors,
clays, herbs, minerals, chemicals,
your study expands and integrates a seemingly vast array of disparate domains,
but by nature of your inquiry, they all meld into one-
To be wielded in your intellectual arsenal on your path as "painter"
 

 "Your canvas is nice,
 and your paints are passable,
 but you do not grow the plants which made the paint? 
 You did not excavate your own charcoal, clay, and stone?"
 
And so you become a farmer. Just as you had unknowingly became a woodworker, a botanist, a chemist, a geologist, and others.

You sit proudly feeling you have finally done it. You ARE A PAINTER. You go to stand, but, it takes longer now. The pains and rigidity of body have grown with years. As you slowly stand, your longtime friend says,

 "This is a truly beautiful place,
  you have access to all the materials you would ever need to paint,
  but I can't help to think,
 with all this time that you have spent learning all these other disciplines and techniques... 
 A TRUE PAINTER would have discarded such interests
  and thew themselves solely into their painting.
 They would have viewed any moment not painting as a complete and utter waste of time!"

Your eye twitches.