Why Does My Art Need a Reason?

I’ve been thinking about something that has been bothering me for a while: why do I feel like I need to explain my art before I can sell it?

Somehow, I’ve absorbed this idea that every painting needs a reason. There needs to be a story behind it, a deeper meaning, a beautiful explanation that helps you understand why I made it and, presumably, why you should want it hanging on your wall.

And as someone trying to build an art business, I understand where that comes from.

A couple of years ago, I took an art business course because I was trying to figure out how to turn this thing I’ve been doing for years into an actual business. There was a lot of useful information, but there was also a strong emphasis on making art understandable, creating the right story around it, and helping people see the value in what you’re offering.

It made sense. But something about it never quite sat right with me.

My work is abstract, and abstract art can be difficult to explain. I can tell you about the colours, shapes, layers and process, but eventually I run into the same question: what does it mean?

And sometimes I honestly don’t know.

Not because I don’t care about what I’m making. I care deeply about it. But I don’t necessarily begin a painting with a message I need to communicate. Sometimes I want to see what happens when I put one colour beside another. Sometimes a shape catches my attention. Sometimes I simply want to paint.

Why does that need to become a profound story?

Which brings me to the flowers.

I’ve recently started painting florals.

And here’s the funny part: I don’t actually love painting florals.

This isn’t the story of an artist who has always been fascinated by flowers and has finally found her calling. This is my first real attempt at them.

I’m trying them for a fairly practical reason. I’ve wondered whether people who don’t quite understand my abstract work might find it easier to connect with something they recognize. Maybe if they can’t figure out what they’re looking at in an abstract painting, they’ll look at a flower and think, Oh, I know what that is.

And if they don’t understand the flowers either?

Well, I’ll come up with another plan.

But in the middle of all this, I caught myself doing exactly what I’ve been questioning. I started wondering what the story behind the flowers should be.

I could tell you that they represent growth, resilience or transformation. I could talk about the layers underneath the colour and how they reflect the difficult things we carry before anyone sees the joy on the surface.

And those things wouldn’t necessarily be untrue. But does every painting really need to carry a message?

Or have we simply become accustomed to believing that if something matters to us, we need to be able to explain why?

Maybe you know what I mean.

How often do we ask ourselves to justify the things we love?

Why do you like that colour?

Why do you want to wear that?

Why does that piece of furniture matter when there are cheaper ones?

Why do you want to spend your Saturday painting, gardening, reading, making jewellery, taking photographs or doing absolutely nothing productive?

Why do you want to change careers?

Why don’t you want the life everyone else seems to be choosing?

Sometimes we turn things we love into little courtroom cases, gathering evidence to prove that our choices are sensible enough to deserve a place in our lives.

And maybe they don’t need to be.

Maybe “I like it” is a complete sentence.

Maybe something can bring you joy without teaching you a lesson.

Maybe you can choose the bright yellow chair because it makes you ridiculously happy, even if someone else thinks it clashes with everything.

Maybe you can hang a painting on your wall because the colours make you smile every time you walk past it, even if you couldn’t tell anyone what the artist intended.

Maybe you can make something simply because you want to.

That’s actually what I’m beginning to appreciate about art.

You don’t have to understand abstraction to connect with a painting. You don’t need the artist to tell you what you’re supposed to see. You might see something completely different from what the person who made it saw.

And that’s okay.

The moment something enters your home, it becomes part of your world. Maybe it reminds you of someone. Maybe it changes the feeling of a room. Maybe it makes you stop for a second on a Tuesday morning when you were otherwise rushing past.

It doesn’t need to justify its existence.

And neither do you.

So yes, I’m still painting the flowers. I’m still figuring out whether florals are something I want to continue exploring and whether they might become a bridge for people who find abstraction a little intimidating.

Maybe they will.

Maybe they won’t.

And if they don’t?

I’ll come up with another plan.

But perhaps the bigger thing I’m taking away from this little experiment has nothing to do with flowers at all.

It’s the permission to stop looking for a sufficiently impressive reason for everything.

Sometimes you like something because you like it.

Sometimes you make something because you want to make it.

Sometimes something makes you happy, and that is the reason.

And maybe that’s enough.