The Strange Exchange of Selling Art

I don't really question why I make art. Not anymore.

As a child, probably around four years old, I was always drawing, doodling and painting. It never crossed my mind that creativity could become something people would pay for. It was simply what I did. It was how I explored the world.

These days, not much has changed. I paint most days, and certainly every week. My flat is overflowing with paintings. I create them far quicker than they find homes.

Some painted over an afternoon, others a day, a week, a month. Some take a day to sell and find a home, others years or longer even.

There's a quote from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory that I feel connects to this somehow when talking whether to sell the golden ticket to help their situation instead of the won tour:

"Why would you give something away so rare for something as common as money?"

As an artist, it captures a strange contradiction. Every original painting is unique, even if it’s a revisit it won’t be exactly the same. There is only one. Yet I exchange that rarity for something as ordinary and abundant as money.

Perhaps that's why selling art has always felt a little strange to me.

Not because I don't believe my work has value, but because I hope money never becomes the barrier between the artwork and the people who connect with it. I love the lasting connections that art creates.

I've always understood what art gives to me. It's where I find flow.

Hours disappear as music fills my ears and I become completely absorbed in what I'm making. With earbuds, I feel immersed within the music itself, as if it becomes part of the space within my head I'm creating in, rather than simply something playing in the background around the room. Challenging at times, soon as I have finished the art I somehow forget the effort taken, because the effort is often fun despite the challenges of figuring it out.

It's one of the few times my mind becomes quiet. I'm present, focused and completely within the moment.

Whether an idea comes from a conversation, a memory, something I've seen, or simply my imagination, it naturally becomes filtered through my own way of seeing until it feels like mine.

But I have also wrestled with where art fits within the bigger picture of the world.

There are people out there who save lives every day. Doctors, paramedics, carers, scientists, engineers and countless others who dedicate themselves to solving problems, pushing humanity forward and making a tangible difference to people's survival and quality of life.

Sometimes I have wondered where painting sits alongside that. What is the value of creating something when others are building the technology we rely on, discovering new treatments, or being there in someone's most difficult, even life threatening moments?

The world needs people who can save lives, make discoveries and solve the challenges we face.

But perhaps art contributes in a different way.

Art may not always save a life in the immediate sense, but it can still affect how we experience life. It can give people moments of reflection, comfort, joy, understanding and wonder. It can help us process things we don't always have words for, and remind us of our shared humanity.

Perhaps the world has room for both. The people who help us survive, and the people who help remind us why living is meaningful.

What I've found harder to understand is what my work gives to someone else.

After all, if you break a painting down into its parts, it's just canvas or paper, paint and a frame. It doesn't physically change over time like a film or a video game might with repeated interaction.

But perhaps that's missing the point.

Art changes because our relationship with it changes.

A painting can become part of a home, remind us of a feeling, a person or a place, or simply make us pause for a moment. I genuinely believe the things we surround ourselves with shape how we feel. Having a home that reflects who we are and what matters to us can have a real impact on our wellbeing.

If one of my paintings brings a little wonder, humour or calm into someone's everyday life, then it's already done something worthwhile.

The money isn't the motivation.

The connection is.

I don't see myself as someone painting for money. I would be painting anyhow (I am no where near career level yet anyhow - I would need a lot more to find homes more often for that to become a reality ) I paint because it's who I am. Selling a painting simply allows me to continue doing what I would be doing anyway.

Perhaps that's why I prefer to think of buying art as an exchange rather than a transaction.

Someone chooses to live with a piece that means something to them, and in return they give me the time and freedom to keep creating and one day towards keeping the lights on and rent paid, so I can keep painting. The money isn't really what I'm receiving—it's what the money represents. Time. Materials. Rent. The ability to keep making the next painting.

My home is full of drawers, folders, shelves and forgotten corners packed with work. Finished paintings. Half-finished ideas. Sketchbooks. Experiments. Pieces I'd almost forgotten existed.

They're little treasures waiting to be rediscovered.

One day I'd love to have a studio where people could wander around, open drawers, leaf through folders and stumble across pieces they weren't expecting to find. Until then, I'll keep sharing those hidden corners here through blogs and videos—finished paintings alongside unfinished ideas, sketches, thoughts and glimpses into the creative process.

Of course, I'd love every painting to find a home.

Not because I'd have an empty flat, although that would certainly help, but because each painting would become part of someone else's story. It would make room for the next idea while bringing a little joy, curiosity or comfort into another person's life.

That's the exchange I hope for.

Not rare art for common money.

But a genuine human connection that allows me to keep creating, and hopefully leaves the world a little more colourful, textured and nuanced than I found it.

Some of my work is playful and full of imagination. Other pieces are much more honest, exploring identity, belonging, neurodivergence and those moments when we feel like we don't quite fit. If someone looks at one of those paintings and feels a little less alone, that's an incredible privilege.

More than anything, I want my work to connect me with other people beyond the artwork itself, and of course the work can be seen and enjoyed without the need to purchase it, it is my hope that many of those visiting the exhibitions of artwork waiting for a home, will have still enjoyed and gained something from visiting the work.

It is a rollercoaster this putting art out there and wishing, hoping to make a living from it, I will always have the need to create and for those buying my work so I don’t have to store it here any longer, it means more than you can know :)

This Raven was painted during an afternoon, shred to instagram and sold to one of my collectors in the US the same day, where as other paintings may wait a few years to find their buyer, I like to believe (whether it is true or not) that each painting, if focused and done with love, has it’s buyer already waiting. I am sure I will paint many more ravens, not for the hope of money but for the symbolism they represent and the challenge to depicting black with the blues and purples shining off of it. I am obsessed. As Helena Bonham Carter said about Tim Burton To quench the thirst of self expression

Art books give me joy, I haven’t looked at them in a while but I know there will be a time I go back to them, enjoying delving in. And also the rogue Artist guide to market and art, I love Rafi Perez’ philosophy and way of connecting to being an artist (Rafiandklee.com)