The Artist Beneath the Art

There is something largely unrecognized in the art world—something I scarcely understood until recently. Now it resounds clearly in my heart and mind, as though I have heard it in a way that cannot be unheard.

As artists, we often hide behind our work. We remain unseen, hoping that our worth will somehow be recognized through the beauty of what we produce. We hope the work will prove that we are valuable. That we are worth something. That we are worthy of being exchanged for something of equal or greater value.

It is a strange way to live.

In some ways, it reminds me of the soldier whose value is only fully recognized after death—by family, by country, by the people who finally gather around the meaning of what has been lost. The thought is terrifying. And yet, for a small mind, the hope of immortality can seem like the only way to make sense of existence.

Perhaps the problem is obvious on the surface. Look at my art. My own sense of self-worth is poor, so I need you to support my illusion that I am worth something, even though some deeper part of me insists that I am not.

But perhaps there is another layer beneath that.

The art itself can become part of the illusion—a product created not only from inspiration, but from our attempts to cover, disguise, or compensate for our own psychological wounds. The work becomes a façade. We hide behind beauty.

The obvious answer, then, would be to turn this around.

But how?

The product in art is often assigned a monetary value. Yet it is clear that this value has little to do with the actual time, talent, or effort invested in creating it. A work can take months to complete and be worth very little. Another can be created in minutes and be worth a fortune.

So what is it that is actually being valued?

I have always been fascinated by the story of Salvador Dalí saying that he wanted to be a professional clown. The interviewer was apparently shocked by the statement, but Dalí remained confident and entirely unashamed. Then he clarified what he meant: what he had to offer the world was the personality of Dalí.

No more.

That idea has stayed with me.

We often replace ourselves with our art. We try to make the work speak for us because we are unwilling—or perhaps afraid—to speak for ourselves. We worry that to put our own personality forward is to expose our flaws.

But we are exposed anyway.

Every day.

The artist is present in the work whether they wish to be or not. The artist’s fears, obsessions, desires, wounds, humour, arrogance, humility, and strange little ways of seeing the world all find their way into the work. We can cover ourselves with layers of paint, stone, bronze, polish, branding, and carefully chosen words, but there is still something of us beneath it all.

People see more than we think they do.

And perhaps that is where the true value of the artist begins.

Regardless of whether you believe that confidence has anything to do with success, there is one thing I feel increasingly certain of. If I had no more time to explain this clearly and had to leave it as a footnote to everything else I have written, I would want this to ring as clearly and as loudly as possible:

Art is first about people. The product means very little without the person behind it.

Art is often sold through a story.

And every one of us has a story.

That story is our character. It is the strange collection of experiences, failures, beliefs, wounds, triumphs, contradictions, and dreams that make us who we are. It is always there. It is always worth telling.

So keep making the art.

Keep producing.

Keep carving, painting, drawing, building, writing, and creating.

But remember that people often see you before they see the work.

And if I have learned anything about people over the years, it is that they are far better at seeing through us than the most skilled psychic. They can see through the magic and the makeup. They can see through the carefully constructed image. They see the person beneath it all.

They see you.

And perhaps they can recognize your worth long before you are capable of recognizing it yourself.

If you can begin to see it too, then something changes.

It becomes easier to do what you love.

To produce art.

To create.

But perhaps the greater task is to place yourself forward alongside your work—and, in doing so, to place other people forward before their art as well.

Because the work may be beautiful.

The work may be valuable.

The work may even outlive us.

But before the art, there was always a person.

And perhaps that person was the real masterpiece all along.