The Ritual of Returning to the Easel: What makes an Artist?

Hello,

It’s nice to meet you - and welcome to the slightly unhinged world of sloth.

Today, we’re going to be doing something different. Today, we’re going to have a sit - and we’re going to ponder. You can ponder standing up if you’d like. That's acceptable as well. And your back and your physiotherapist will probably appreciate you for it. So by all means, ponder as you like.

It’s been a while since I started artsloth on a day with one too many coffees. I think it was around the time my love for it was at an all time peak, at about noon. I’m happy to report that that is no longer the case. I now drink a sane amount of coffee with a splash of chocolate, and I do recommend it. Today has been a double shot of chocolate kind of day - so far.

I’ve spent a good part of this year creating art, reading about art, and being generally inspired - and at the same time, being in a state of pause. You see - I’ve been pondering - freshly inspired from the recent additions to the art bookshelf. More on that another day, perhaps.

I read a conversation between two artists today. (Yes, comments on Instagram are a valid source of information). You know the conversation I’m talking about because we’ve all read or heard a version of it.

One side of the coin being discussed, quite flavourfully if I might add, was why abstract art is art at all if a 5-year-old could do it. He was adamant on the argument that if he could do it himself, why should he have to pay for it at all? He said, and I quote, It’s not a Rembrandt, or a Michelangelo, where you can see the level of detail, artistry, and the mastery of observation and rendering in every brushstroke.

The other insisted that it’s not the level of detail or mastery that makes a work of art substantial in its setting, it’s what it evokes in the viewer, and if it makes you feel all sorts of ways in your belly, or makes you sit and ponder (or stand and ponder, whatever floats your many different boats) - how does it matter what that painting is about at all?

I have wondered this many times - and for me, as the kind of artist who likes to throw paint around on a canvas and see where it lands and leads, here are my two cents on the subject.

I think the one thing that is common in all artists - be it the intricate design in their art, the masterful rendering, or the choosing of whatever genius composition has struck them in that moment - I think the one thing that binds them together and sets them apart, is their ability to show up to their practice.

Their ability to create a growing collection of work. When you can look at what their life has been over the course of the years - through the shapes and forms and decisions that appear in the visual journal of their current life. It’s incredible, really.

I find myself thinking of Yayoi Kusama, who, despite her own struggles, has tirelessly produced an astonishing body of work that is instantly recognizable and has evolved over seven decades. Her consistent "showing up" is as much a part of her art as the polka dots themselves.

An artist, to me, is a force of nature. Someone with the drive to create art, to create music, to express themselves in a language that is singularly their own and everyday, strive to reach that state of quiet and creation.

Now, for people with that drive, and from my personal experience of having the pleasure to interview the many artists for sloth, it’s next to impossible not to create. With all that stimulation we receive throughout the day in the very busy world of today, that little mental container of ideas and general pondering needs an outlet. That outlet is usually art.

Now again, when one can’t keep themselves from creating, what happens is you get a flowing, growing journal. A changing, fluid statement on who they are in that moment of time. Like a visual calendar you can go back to.

A library of works. Not a few moments of genius - but a showing up. That, to me, is an artist. Now, don’t take me wrong, you can be a practicing artist and a working artist. But if you show up consistently to create something or the other, I hate to break it to you - you probably are an artist.

Now back to that discussion and why I thought that it was interesting to pick up.

If I could paint the same picture as another artist, does that take away from the original creator?

Well, that depends, I suppose.

Take the works of Piet Mondrian, or Mark Rothko. At first glance, you could probably create works like that yourself - but then, you couldn’t.

Robert Rauschenberg Art

The knowledge and ease that the masters have arrived at comes from many, many years of playing around with their materials to find what works for them. That dedication, that constant refinement of technique and tools, and the sheer volume of exploration that went into those deceptively simple pieces is what sets them apart.

It's the history behind the line, the library behind the color block. You can mimic the result, sure, but you can’t replicate the journey. You see it in their lives, not just their art. The consistency is the art form itself. It’s the ritual of returning to the easel, the notebook, the digital canvas, even when inspiration is a fickle ghost. It’s the habit of showing up on the days you feel like a fraud, and the days when every brushstroke feels like a clumsy mistake. That stubborn commitment is the invisible scaffolding that supports the great works.

Think of the story of Paul Cézanne, who would often work on a single still life for hundreds of sessions over years, constantly wrestling with the formal arrangement of apples and drapery. The 'finished' work is a testament to that relentless process.

And that brings me back to the five-year-old. Can a child splash paint and achieve a Rothko-esque effect? On the surface, perhaps. A few accidental squares of color, a pleasing clash of tones. But that five-year-old hasn’t wrestled with the history of color theory, hasn’t spent a decade trying to unlearn everything they were taught about representation, hasn’t been brave enough to strip their work down to its bare, vibrating essence.

The five-year-old is playing. The master is communicating an irreducible truth. The difference is intention, and the weight of a lifetime of practice distilled into a single, seemingly simple gesture.

The abstract artist is presenting the final iteration of a thousand failed attempts to express a feeling that has no language. They are showing you the quiet space they finally found after wading through years of noise. It’s an absolute and profound act of subtraction.

I think the real frustration of the gentleman in the Instagram comments wasn’t that he couldn’t paint the piece himself, but that he didn’t value the unquantifiable journey it took to get there. He was looking for the visible labor, the tiny hairs on the Rembrandt’s velvet cloak, and perhaps missed the invisible work - the mental, spiritual, and material exploration that led to the perfectly imperfect edge of a Rothko canvas, or the entire cityscapes nestled in Mondrian’s works.

He wanted a receipt for hours spent, but art often bills you in moments of profound insight earned through years of diligent, often fruitless, work. Agnes Martin, for example, dedicated her life to subtle, gridded canvases that appear minimal, yet each line is a meditation, a result of decades of searching for 'innocence' and 'happiness' in form. You can't paint that kind of peace without the discipline.

So, when we look at a work of art and think, "I could do that," we are missing the point. The question is not, "Could I do that?" The question is, "Would I choose to do that, and would I have the courage, the conviction, and the knowledge to stand behind that choice as the culmination of my life’s work? Would I bet tomorrow's bread on it even on days when it brings me none?"

Well, I suppose it also depends on your reasons for buying that piece of art in the first place. Are you just trying to cover a spot on the wall or make it prettier, or is this an artwork you’ve wanted to own for a while? Is this an artist who you find inspiring and worth investing in or supporting? Does the art itself make you want to look at it until you understand it better? Does it remind you of something in your past or inspire the future?

The truth is, an artist's signature isn't just their name scrawled in the corner; it's the sheer existence of the work. It is the proof that they showed up, again and again, with the humility to fail and the tenacity to try one more time. That commitment, that library of works, is what gives the deceptively simple piece its weight. It's the story of consistency. Of showing up. Either from the drive to want to build a creative career, or from a drive to just create for no other reason than to create. That drive is what makes an artist.

And that is why we ponder - standing up, or sitting on whatever you may be sitting on, of course. Because the conversation, the creation, and the commitment are all part of the same beautiful, messy thing.

Creative always, with more pondering's to come in the future,

One of the Sloths,

AKA Varnika Kirby