Do You Make Art to Make a Thing — or to Make Yourself?

Do you make art to make a thing ... to produce a picture, or a pot, or a statue? Or do you make it to make yourself?

I’ve been turning this question over for a while now, and it feels especially alive for me this year. I’ve  decided that 2026 is my year of experimentation. Not a year of outcomes or ambition or big projects, but a year of paying attention, of making space, and of letting myself follow creative urges wherever they lead.

That decision has changed the way I work.

Instead of arriving in my studio with a fixed intention, I arrive with curiosity. I look around and notice what’s pulling at me that day. Sometimes it’s a large abstract painting that wants another layer. Sometimes it’s a small collage that is calling for a quiet half-hour and a pair of scissors. Sometimes it’s one of the abstracted self-portraits I’ve been circling around — they're not likenesses, but states of mind made visible. Each day, I follow the work that’s calling, rather than the work I think I should be doing.

There’s something surprisingly revealing about that kind of listening.

When you become present in this way, your art starts behaving like a mirror. You begin to notice patterns — not just in the work, but in yourself. You see where you rush in to fix things rather than letting them unfold. You notice where you play it safe. You become aware of the moments when you abandon an idea too quickly, or cling to one long after it has gone dead.

Speaking for myself, I’ve also noticed how often other people’s voices slip into my decision-making. The imagined viewer; the teacher from years ago; or the art world (whatever that is!). Even when no one else is in the room, they can be surprisingly loud. And then there are days when I realise I’m not listening to myself at all — when I override my own curiosity and tell myself there’s a “right” way to proceed.

The studio is very good at exposing all of this.

The practical result of this extra time and freedom is that I’m making far more work than I normally do. Alongside that has come a lot of bad art. Truly bad! Much of it is awkward, unresolved, or boring. Some is overworked or undercooked. Mixed in with all the dross are pieces that feel alive in ways I can’t quite name, that contain excitement and promise. But what’s been most striking isn’t the fluctuation in quality. It’s how quickly the finished things stop mattering once they’re done.

What stays with me isn’t the object, but what I learned while making it. I can see where I hesitated, where I  pushed too hard, or where I surprised myself by taking a big risk.

These moments form a quiet education that carries over into the rest of my life. The places I limit myself in my studio often mirror the places where I limit myself in life. For example, my tendency to overthinking and my desire for approval are not limited to my studio. Likewise, I can see that studio moments of trust, of decisiveness, and of allowing things to be imperfect - those are traits that need to be expressed fully in my life as well as in my art practice.

Our art shows us so much! How we relate to uncertainty. How we deal with frustration. How willing we are to listen, and how willing we are to ignore the noise when it’s no longer helpful. 

This is why the results matter so much less than we imagine. The artefacts may end up sold, stored, given away, or discarded. But the person you become through the act of making — more attentive, more honest, more capable of staying with discomfort — that person stays with you. 

So when I ask whether you make art to make a thing or to make yourself, it isn’t a rhetorical question. It’s an invitation to reflect on how you see your art practice and its place in your life.

If you’ve been hesitating because you don’t know what you’re working towards, or because your ideas feel messy, or because nothing seems worth the effort, I want to gently suggest this: the work is already doing its job. Even when the results are forgettable. Especially then.

Your art is capable of shaping you. It can guide your personal development, illuminate the reasons for some of your struggles, and even help you dissolve long-standing patterns. But that can only happen if you are making your work - however imperfect it may be.

And that, I’m discovering again, is more than enough reason to begin :)