Learning to See for Yourself

David Hockney once said in an interview:

“I think a lot of people would like to be artists. What you’re doing is interpreting life. You’re interpreting your experience, and it’s a privilege in a sense to be able to do that.”

I believe this is profoundly true. Awakening to the ability to see the world — and then recreate that reality through your own hands — is a gift worth cherishing. There is so much in this life that needs to be learned, taught, and passed along, and each of us does this in a way as unique as our own personality. The way you see is not a flaw. It is perfect in its own way.

Anyone who has spent time in an art class knows this instinctively. Place a group of people in front of the same reference image, give them the same medium, and ask them to copy what they see. The results will always be wonderfully different. Yes, skill levels vary — but that’s not the point. What matters is that each person is learning how they observe, interpret, and project what they see. Every attempt deepens perception. Every repetition refines understanding. Growth happens not through imitation alone, but through honest self-reflection layered into the process.

What troubles me about much of contemporary art culture — especially in art schools and viral platforms — is the growing admiration for what I’d call effortless spectacle. Work that requires little time, little discipline, and little practical investment, yet thrives on flashy presentation and algorithmic manipulation. Attention becomes currency. Funding follows clicks. Eventually, the work itself becomes secondary to the performance around it.

At some point, it no longer matters whether the artist has depth or skill — only that they appear important. Prices inflate like speculative assets, untethered from meaning, until repetition alone cements their place in textbooks. The system validates itself.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes we need to call it out.

If a piece of art doesn’t resonate after an honest, patient attempt to understand it — if it fails to speak in any meaningful way — it’s possible you’re not missing something. It’s possible you’ve been duped. When art requires a tour guide, a manifesto, or relentless self-promotion just to justify its existence, it may be the surrounding noise doing the heavy lifting — not the work itself.

Your attention is valuable. You don’t owe it to the algorithm. You don’t owe it to trends. You don’t owe it to charisma, bravado, or carefully curated personas. Too often, the art becomes inseparable from the figure behind it, and the object itself loses its voice.

The antidote to this isn’t cynicism — it’s practice.

Learning to make art for yourself, in your own way, is one of the most awakening acts you can undertake. It teaches you how to see clearly. It sharpens discernment. It reconnects you to what feels honest and alive. Creating isn’t about chasing recognition — it’s about becoming the thing you once wished existed.

Learn to see for yourself.

Create for yourself.

That’s where meaning still lives.

The Hidden Spell of Art

Art, at its best, feels like an enchantment—a spell cast by the artist, quietly sent into the world, waiting for the right person to receive it. There are always unsaid words hidden in the work, fragments of mystery that only a few may ever fully understand. And that’s part of the beauty: obscurity leaves room for curiosity, allowing viewers to discover their own meaning in what is unseen.

Not all art is well received, of course. Taste varies endlessly. Some creations are like a bowl of KD—comforting, mass-produced, and easy to digest. But every so often, someone realizes that it doesn’t quite sit with them. They dig deeper. They seek what stirs their soul, what resonates with their unique palette of taste. And when they find it, they know.

As artists, we feel the tension between creating what the masses expect and staying true to what moves us. Repetition and imitation may be safe, but they risk stripping away meaning. A copy of a copy becomes background noise—unquestioned, unexamined. By contrast, something new, honest, and raw always sparks attention, even in the untrained eye.

This is the true challenge and calling of the artist: to resist being lost in the crowd, to tune ourselves to the one note that vibrates in our hearts. Our message will be received—not always today, not always by many, but always by those who are ready for it.

So if you are an artist reading this, take heart. Your work matters. Your voice is heard, whether now or tomorrow. Trust the mystery you weave into your art, because time has a way of revealing it to those who need it most.