Why do you make art?

A dear friend of mine passed away not long ago. After he was gone, we gathered all of his art and writings, and I have been in the process of scanning those works of art. What is fascinating about these works of art, which are quite good, is that he never created with the intent to sell his art. Paintings, drawings, pieces made quietly and steadily over years. None of them sold.

I've been sitting with that ever since.

We live in a world that asks art to justify itself. To find an audience, build a following, generate revenue. And there's nothing wrong with any of that — I sell my own work, and I'm glad when it finds a home. But my friend's stacks of unseen art have been asking me a quieter question: what if none of that is the point?

Art for art's sake is an old idea, but it keeps asking to be rediscovered. There is something that happens in the act of making — something that exists entirely in the hours at the table, at the easel, with the needle and thread — that has nothing to do with outcome. A kind of presence. A conversation between you and the materials, between you and yourself.

My friend made hundreds of works. He made them anyway. There's something almost devotional about that.

So I want to ask you, gently, to reflect this week: Why do you make what you make? Not what you hope it will become, or who you hope will see it — but why your hands reach for the brush, the pencil, the yarn. What are you in the middle of, when you're in the middle of making?

I believe that impulse — whatever it is for you — deserves to be honored. Not because it will lead somewhere. Simply because it's yours.

Keep making.