Art Rabbithole

I’ve often thought about what truly makes something “art.” Over the years, I’ve come to believe that art cannot be defined by the medium or the method of its creation. To me, art is not about whether a piece is made with oil paint, clay, pixels, or performance—it’s about a shared recognition, a collective sense that we are experiencing something we know as “art.”

This idea has profoundly shaped my journey as an artist. When I first began painting, I believed art was tied to skill with a brush, the ability to capture form, light, and color with accuracy. However, as time passed and I explored different styles and mediums, I realized that the essence of art lies far deeper than technique. A work does not become art simply because it is beautifully crafted. It becomes art because it moves us—because it makes us pause, reflect, question, or even feel a sudden rush of connection to something beyond ourselves.

History shows us that this definition has always been fluid. Think of the cave paintings of our ancestors. They weren’t striving for gallery recognition, yet their work continues to resonate thousands of years later. Or consider the Renaissance masters, who believed that precision and perspective could elevate human creativity to divine heights. Then came the revolutionaries—Impressionists, Cubists, Surrealists—who broke rules and insisted that art could be about perception, emotion, and dreams rather than strict representation.

One of the most striking examples for me is Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain, a simple urinal placed in a gallery. At first glance, it might seem absurd, but Duchamp was making a powerful point: art doesn’t need to be defined by craftsmanship or materials. It can be an idea, a provocation, a shift in perspective. That thought has always stayed with me, reminding me to remain open to possibilities beyond tradition.

Today, we’re living in a time where technology pushes these boundaries even further. Digital art, AI-generated images, and immersive installations are changing the landscape. Some argue these works lack the human touch, yet they provoke emotion and debate—the very things that keep art alive. The question of authorship becomes less important than the dialogue the work creates.

For me, context is just as important as creation. A painting in a gallery draws one response, but the same piece hung in a café or someone’s living room may evoke something entirely different. Art is alive in the space between the creator and the viewer—it’s not fixed, but constantly reshaped by how it is received.

At its heart, art is not about what it is, but what it does. It connects us, challenges us, comforts us, and sometimes even unsettles us. Whether I’m working with oil paints that take weeks to dry or experimenting with quicker, more spontaneous mediums, I remind myself that the real value of art is in the experience it creates. That, I believe, is where its true power lies.