Wrestling with the Voice: Why We Create When No One’s Watching
There’s a voice that lives inside every artist’s studio.
It’s not the hum of fluorescent lights or the scratch of charcoal on paper—it’s quieter than that. More persistent. It’s the voice that starts with a simple whisper:
“But what if they don’t like it?”
“What if it sucks?”
“What if it’s not good enough?”
If you’re a visual artist, you’ve probably heard it too. It shows up just as you’re about to commit to a bold brushstroke, hang your work for a show, or post your latest piece online. It’s the same voice that pushes you to refine your craft, improve your technique, and push your vision further. But it’s also the voice that plants seeds of doubt, turning a creative moment into a crisis of identity.
It doesn’t stop there. Sometimes it says:
“Why am I even doing this?”
“Is this piece just to prove I’m good?”
“Am I making this so people will praise me?”
“Am I chasing likes? Followers? Validation?”
And if we’re honest, maybe the answer is… sometimes, yes. There’s a part of all of us that wants to be seen, acknowledged, affirmed. That’s not vanity—it’s human. But when that desire dominates, the work can feel hollow, performative. The studio becomes a stage. The canvas becomes a mirror.
Then the voice says:
“Look at me. I’m an artist. I make beautiful things. I’m different. I’m special.”
And just like that, the act of creation turns into a performance of worthiness. The work becomes less about expression and more about proving something—to others, or maybe just to ourselves.
But here’s the shift: what if that voice isn’t the enemy?
What if it’s not there to shame us, but to test our clarity? What if it’s a mirror—asking us to look inward and ask why we create, not to silence us, but to help us make art that’s honest?
Because here’s the thing: every visual artist faces that inner questioning. It’s part of the process. The doubt isn’t a sign that you’re lost—it’s a sign that you care.
If we learn to sit with that discomfort instead of running from it, we can let it guide us—not into fear, but into truth. Not into perfectionism, but into presence.
We don’t make art just to be seen. But being seen—truly seen—can be part of the healing, part of the purpose. Art is, at its core, a gesture of connection: I see the world like this. Do you see it too?
So the next time the voice shows up in your studio, don’t silence it. Listen. Let it ask its questions. And then, gently, get back to work—not to prove, but to express. Not to be special, but to be real.
Because that’s where the power is.
In showing up.
In making marks.
In saying, this is mine. This is me.
Even when no one’s watching.
