Core Artistic Philosophy

Every artist who sustains a lifetime of work eventually develops one: a core philosophy that guides the art they create. It’s more than a collection of ideas. It’s a frame of mind through which every experience is filtered and interpreted. It shapes not only the work itself, but the artist’s understanding of the world.

For me, this has been one of the greatest gifts of a life spent making art. It has shaped the physical world around me—the places I’ve chosen to live, the studio I’ve built, and the rhythm of my days. More importantly, it has created an inner framework that continually informs my art making.

“Spiritual” is probably the closest word I can find for that, though it has always felt a little awkward. I don’t mean religious. I mean the collection of questions and convictions that quietly organize the way I move through the world. I’ve often said that there is nothing more spiritual than a question.

One thing I don’t think a core artistic philosophy is about is ego. In fact, I think it’s almost the opposite. Ego is concerned with being right, being recognized, and being important. A mature artistic philosophy is concerned with paying attention. It asks you to step outside yourself and become more receptive to the world than protective of yourself.

The longer I’ve made art, the less interested I’ve become in expressing myself and the more interested I’ve become in paying attention. The work isn’t asking me to declare who I am. It’s asking me to notice more deeply, to remain curious, and to live comfortably with uncertainty.

A philosophy doesn’t make the artist bigger. If it’s doing its job, it makes the artist more humble. More attentive. More willing to be changed by what they encounter.

Recently I saw a young artist write that graduate school had “destroyed” her—that two years had robbed her of the joy of making art and left her creatively paralyzed. My first reaction wasn’t especially charitable. But after thinking about it, I wondered if what she was really missing wasn’t talent or motivation. Maybe she simply hadn’t yet developed a philosophy strong enough to carry her through the inevitable storms.

Because they always come.

Self-doubt comes. Rejection comes. Long stretches where the work seems lifeless come. None of that is unique to graduate school. It’s simply part of making art over a lifetime.

I’ve often joked that to be an artist you need a strong “inner asshole.” What I’ve always meant is that you need an inner conviction that refuses to be pushed around. A philosophy sturdy enough to anchor you when the work falters, when critics dismiss it, or when you begin doubting yourself. It doesn’t make the storms disappear. It simply keeps your little boat from sinking.

So what is a core philosophy for a visual artist?

At its simplest, it is the thing that guides your work.

At a deeper level, it becomes the thing that shapes your life. Eventually the life you live and the art you make become inseparable.

That realization can be unsettling.

During my years of teaching, I became fascinated by a particular question: Why do so many talented, ambitious young artists simply stop making art? They graduate, full of promise, and within a few years the work has disappeared.

I suspect the answer is that they suddenly recognize what they’ve signed up for. Art isn’t a project. It isn’t a degree. It isn’t even a career. It’s a lifetime. To remain an artist requires a commitment that has to survive jobs, families, money, disappointment, success, failure, and all the ordinary complications of being alive.

An admission

For years I’ve carried around a quiet fear that taking an academic position was, in some way, me backing away from the life I really wanted. That I chose security over risk.

I don’t know if that’s true. Teaching gave me extraordinary opportunities, remarkable students, and the freedom to build a life around painting. I wouldn’t erase any of it.

But somewhere inside me that question has never completely disappeared.

Maybe that’s why, after retiring, I’ve thrown myself into the studio with such intensity. Not because I’m trying to reclaim lost time, but because I’m trying to discover just how deeply I’m willing to commit to the work.

The older I get, the more I think an artistic philosophy isn’t a theory about art.

It’s the thing that keeps you making it.

And perhaps that’s its greatest gift. A core artistic philosophy doesn’t simply shape the work you make. Given enough years, it shapes the life you live.