Younger artists often ask me how they should follow the sales advice to “share the story behind your art.” These artists claim to just like painting. I’ve been exactly there, wondering how to talk about my art without feeling like I’m making something up.
I tell them this: not every piece needs to make a point. People connect when you are authentic. I hate nothing more than seeing artists manufacture convoluted labels or descriptions behind their art, after the fact, in an attempt to dupe others to consider them more of an intellectual than they are.
I’m not critical of analysis of your art. You can absolutely find meaning in things once the dust has settled. But here’s the thing: those with keen discernment can tell.
You can’t trick the reader. The reader has a built-in bullshit detector, ingrained by generations of evolution. Thus I tell these artists: just be authentic. That was Hemingway’s whole game; he wanted to recount the truth as accurately as he could and he respected his audience enough to trust that they would connect with the work.
I remember telling early collectors that the “inspiration behind a piece” was that I liked to move my arms around near the easel. I’ve sold pieces this way.
That said, even though not every piece needs to make a point, I still have a reason as to why I paint. Here’s my attempt to explain.
I don’t feel the need to say anything grandiose or contrived with a specific piece. Some artists do compose pieces entirely to make a point. A painting can make a social commentary, it can connect to someone’s life story, or perhaps it reflects their pain or euphoria. But that isn’t where I get value from painting.
What I am doing is distillation. How can I get at the essence of a thing, and how can I convey that in a painting? Even if that essence is simply “what makes a good painting?”
What was Cézanne getting at when he explored different compositions of his Mont Sainte-Victoire? He might just be getting at the crux of painting itself. Maybe he’s trying to say, “here’s this mountain, and I’m doing my damndest to lay it out as cleanly for you to see for what it is, not necessarily what it looks like.”
It’s the same beauty in a sentence well-written. The subject itself might be irrelevant, although in Cézanne’s case, he chose something timeless: the relationship between nature and the viewer.
I don’t see this as the same thing as having commentary. When I produce, I’m not explicitly thinking about the viewer’s response to my work. I do want my viewer to connect with the piece, but I aim to avoid anything contrived, requiring explanation.
I’ve had other artists claim the high ground when they do have a backstory behind their pieces. But I’ve simply never clicked with painting this way. Painting, to me, is about blending your own subjective experience (driven through your body) and your objective knowledge (driven by your brain). If I can compose and execute a painting (objectively) but let my emotions and soul provide the fuel (subjectively), then I’ve done it, and that’s enough.
It isn’t something that can even be articulated cleanly, so I don’t try. It’s like asking Hemingway to describe how he wants you to feel when Robert Jordan dies in For Whom the Bell Tolls, or if that’s even the main goal of the novel— to evoke such emotion. Is it possible he wrote it because he loved the act of writing, thought to share his perspective, and to allow you to make your own interpretation?
Picasso would famously shoot people with blanks when they asked for literal explanations of his work.
The domain of emotions does not entirely overlap with the domain of words. To me, it’s almost too on-the-nose to only ever make work that has a point. The value that I get from art is an expansion of my discernment of emotion. I’ve gone from “feeling sad” to practically being able to hold melancholy in my hands while I paint. I’ve gone from “liking a painting” to being struck by it.
As an artist or a collector, this happens on the macro: countless little moments of art consumption or production develop our emotional attunement. My whole game is to inch closer to this truth, even if all I’m doing and thinking is how to best move my arms around at the easel.
I’ve found that I personally make my best pieces this way, and my collectors resonate most with this type of work. It guides people away from any level of anxiety around “whether or not you get it.” Instead, it’s entirely internal: does your body respond well to it? If you’re viscerally compelled by the art, I consider that successful. This is the whole reason that I buy art—I’m expanding my own internal landscape around my emotions.
If you can find a piece that encourages this exploration, I consider that valuable. If you aren’t compelled by it, then it’s worth passing on— I don’t intend to sell a painting to anyone who doesn’t genuinely resonate with it. But where there is emotional alignment, my aim as an artist is to foster that connection and development.
This is why I share my art.
