They're all just scraps and leavings from your work. Sometimes reference pieces, even blotting paper. All discarded Into the trash.
Once in a while you glance down and look at them, they speak back their own story. Strokes of your being, maybe practices, maybe preparation, maybe adjustments to your final performance and movements.
They have something to stay. Marks your hand and mind made. Free of final critique and comment. Existing on their own free of world bounds. Practices before perfection.
They surprise at time, rising to art in their own right. When viewed by others, you might receive the comment “nice work.” You grin and grimace, but nod your head. Not knowing quite what to say. So you hold them out and remind yourself they are your marks. They do mean something. They are part of you.