Why I Love Artists (And Why You Should Too)

On noticing everything, suffering for it, and doing it anyway

I keep coming back to this photo from Mark Indig.

That light. The way it slices through the lattice and creates this whole other pattern on the floor. The geometry repeating itself in shadow.

Artists notice everything. We can’t help it.

We see color where other people see “blue” or “brown.” We see composition in a parking lot, pattern in a chain-link fence, design in the way someone stacked boxes outside a store. It’s like walking around with this extra sense turned on all the time. Sometimes it’s exhausting (do I really need to analyze the typography on every street sign?) but mostly? It’s this gift.

Because artists get to see the world as endlessly interesting. A latticed structure becomes shadow art. A boring hallway has incredible bones. That weird afternoon light that makes everything look slightly off? Artists notice it. Feel it. Then figure out how to share what they saw with everyone else.

The Thing About Artists That Gets Me

Last week Kim Abeles came to talk with my Shoebox community. She’s been making environmental art, public installations, biographical work on historical figures - she’s done everything. And she told us she’s “always in experimental mode, even when I’m supposed to be prepping for a show.” She works “in the dark with a broken flashlight.”

But here’s what really got me: when she spoke to 100-200 MFA students recently, she said they were panicked. Genuinely panicked about why they would go into art. One woman asked what to do when everyone around her was saying she shouldn’t major in art.

Kim’s answer? “You do it really well, then.”

That’s artists. Someone tells them not to do the thing, and they just... dig in deeper. They go all the way with it.

Why I Bring Speakers to My Artists Every Month

I started bringing in guest speakers years ago - artists, curators, gallerists, consultants, critics, educators. People from all different parts of the art world. Kim Abeles, April Bey, Sharon Louden, Shana Nys Dambrot, Seth Curcio. Each month, someone new.

Because I wanted my artists to see behind the scenes. To understand that there are so many paths, so many opportunities, so many ways to make this work. Gallery representation isn’t the only way. Residencies, public art, social practice, environmental work, teaching, grants, alternative spaces, creating your own opportunities.

But also? I wanted them to hear from people who chose this life and kept choosing it. People who know how hard it is and do it anyway.

Kim was honest about the uncomfortable truths. About how champions matter, how the art market uses work to launder money, how she’s been pulled from shows because of fossil fuel backing. She didn’t sugarcoat any of it.

But she also said: “I will die thinking that art has a prominent reason to be part of what humans are, and that culture means everything.”

Artists hold onto that. Even when it makes no practical sense. Even when everyone’s telling them to do something more sensible.

The Suffering Part (They Do It Anyway)

Kim shared her image for dealing with rejection. She pictures herself as Marlon Brando in “On the Waterfront,” beaten to a pulp on the dock. She shakes herself off - literally does this - gets up, and it’s over. Walks off.

“As visual artists, you know how hand-eye coordination and using your body is a super part of whatever art form you make,” she told us. “The power of imagery is incredible.”

Artists get rejected constantly. Work doesn’t sell. Shows fall through. Funding disappears. People yank their kids away from your work saying “we’re not here to see art, we’re here to see science.”

(That actually happened to Kim at the California Science Center. She told us about it with such honesty. “Those kind of experiences really humbled me for life... the ego just is always in the way.”)

But they keep making. Keep showing up in the studio. Keep believing that what they’re doing matters, even when they’re not entirely sure what it’s about yet.

Kim said something that made everyone in the room nod: “I don’t really know what the work’s about till it’s done. And maybe I don’t even know until about a year after that. I just kind of cruise along on faith that there must be some reason I’m spending so much time on this.”

Faith. That’s what artists have. Faith that their unique way of seeing matters. That translating the world through their particular lens is worth the struggle.

What Artists Actually Have

“All you really have is your art and your personal vision,” Kim told those panicked MFA students. “There is not much in the world that cares whether you do this or not.”

Harsh? Maybe. But also freeing.

Because if that’s all you have - this way of seeing, this need to make, this particular vision that only you can bring - then you might as well go all the way with it. Be 100% in, not 80%. The difference is dramatic.

When Kim reflected on her early days, before anyone cared about her work, she remembered having no deadline pressures, no paperwork, nobody asking her to fill anything out. “If it took me two weeks to put this little painting on this little metal thing? Hey, who’s counting.”

She’s trying to get back to that now. “The perfection I’m looking for is... just wanting to care for every minute, for every dot. That’s not gonna win a popularity contest, right? But it just seems urgent for me to at least respect that part of the creative process.”

The Unique Vision Part

That’s what Mark’s photo shows me. An artist looked at light coming through a lattice and saw something worth capturing. Saw pattern and shadow, inside and outside, structure and freedom. Saw beauty in an ordinary threshold.

Artists do this constantly. They translate the world. Take what their eye catches and say “look, did you see this? did you notice how beautiful this ordinary thing actually is?”

They make us slow down and really look. See color and composition and nuance we’d completely miss otherwise. They show us the world is more interesting than we thought.

And they do it even when it’s hard. Even when no one’s asking them to. Even when everyone’s saying they should do something more practical with their lives.

Why I Do This Work

Every month when I bring a speaker to my Shoebox community, I’m reminded why I love artists so much. They’re honest about the struggle while staying committed to the work. They share the difficult truths alongside the hope. They never apologize for choosing this complicated, impractical, essential path.

Kim told us about working with groups in southern India whose water and air have been ruined by power plants. About making work with her retina fallen (not detached - fallen). About spending months on pieces she can’t quite articulate yet. About the discipline of showing up when you don’t feel like it.

And then she said: “Some people are so disappointed with what they do with their lives. But you guys... none of you are like that. So right there, you just got the award.”

That’s artists. They choose this life knowing how hard it is. They keep that extra sense turned on all the time, noticing everything, translating the world through their unique vision.

They suffer but do it anyway.

They see what others miss and find ways to share it.

They work in the dark with broken flashlights and call it an adventure.

That’s why I love artists. That’s why I keep bringing speakers from every corner of the art world to talk with my community. Because artists need to hear from other people who chose this path and kept choosing it. Who know the truth about how hard it is and still believe - really believe - that what we do matters.

The world needs people who notice the light slicing through lattices. Who care about every dot. Who go all the way with their vision even when it makes no practical sense.

Mark caught something in that photo. That threshold, that pattern, that particular quality of light. He looked. Really looked. And then showed us what he saw.

That’s what artists do.

And I love them for it.

Chacao by Mark Indig https://markindigphoto.com/