What I Want From My Art

People often assume that artists begin with a bold declaration about what they want their work to mean. The truth is quieter than that. What I want from my art is something I am still discovering.

I usually work in series, creating enough pieces to fill a room for an exhibition. That might mean ten to twenty paintings united by a shared theme. I do this two or three times a year. There is something deeply satisfying about building a body of work that exists in conversation with itself.

Between those structured series, I give myself space to experiment. To play. To explore ideas without knowing whether they will succeed. Those unstructured moments are often where growth happens.

Lately, I have been exploring the use of recycled materials in my work. The idea itself is not new, but it is new to me. After watching a documentary about the overwhelming volume of discarded clothing filling our landfills, I was struck by how deeply the fashion industry contributes to pollution. I have always loved the concept of Earthships, homes constructed from old tires, tin cans, and glass bottles. It made me wonder what might happen if I incorporated discarded textiles into my paintings. What textures might emerge? What hidden histories might surface?

I have also begun shredding old business documents and repurposing them into plaster, collage, and assembled sculptures using found objects. Fragments of paper and remnants of daily life carry invisible narratives. While many artists have explored similar approaches before me, what fascinates me is discovering what I bring to the experiment.

Recently, a friend mentioned that he experiences my work as positive and happy. I have never consciously tried to create happy art, but it is true that whatever we carry inside ourselves finds its way onto the surface.

That observation felt particularly ironic after I received a thoughtful response from a gallery owner in Latvia. Most introductory letters go unanswered, but this gallerist took the time to write me a full page of commentary. He told me directly that he did not like my work because it was too decorative.

I have never quite known how to respond to that criticism.

What does too decorative actually mean? I do not create art to match a sofa or to fill space in a department store. I assume most people purchase art because it moves them, inspires them, or brings them a sense of pleasure or uplift. I cannot imagine many collectors seek out work because it is intentionally upsetting or frightening.

The gallery owner went on to say that my work did not reflect enough pain and suffering, and that he wished I would experience more hardship so that my art might improve.

I was not sure whether to take that as advice or as a curse.

To be clear, I truly appreciated that he responded at all and that he offered honest feedback. He also made a valid observation. With so many artists creating abstract expressionist work, it can be difficult to distinguish one voice from another. He is right about that.

What I struggle with is the assumption that sorrow carries more artistic value than joy. Why should sadness be considered more profound than peace? If artists are meant to create from within, why would we deny the good emotions in favor of the painful ones?

I came to art later in life. After years of being encouraged to pursue a more stable and predictable path, I returned home to help care for my aging parents. It became clear that I could not maintain a full time job while meeting their needs. In 2015, we stepped away from traditional employment and committed ourselves to working as freelance artists.

It is not a conventional way to build a life, but I have never been happier.

At this stage in life, I sometimes wonder whether part of my desire to paint is connected to mortality. I do not have children. There may be no one to visit a grave long after I am gone. Perhaps some small part of me hopes that my work will outlive me.

But that is not the driving force.

I paint because I need to. I have things to say. I could write them down, and sometimes I do. But painting communicates in a way language cannot. Color, texture, gesture, and material speak beyond words.

What I want from my art is simple. I want the freedom to keep exploring. To keep experimenting. To keep discovering what wants to emerge.

Becoming rich and famous would certainly be welcome.

But mostly, I want to build a life sustained by creativity. I want to earn enough from my work to continue making it for the rest of my days.

That is what I want from my art.