The Value of Art (And Why It’s More Than a Price Tag)

Lately, I’ve been thinking deeply about the value of art — especially original pieces. As an artist, I spend hours on a single painting, but in truth, it’s more than just those hours. It’s my life. It’s my practice. It’s countless days lost in creative flow, in trial and error, in emotion. My work is not just about time, it’s about everything that leads to the moment the brush meets the canvas.

And once a painting is finished, it’s there. It exists. It’s tangible. It’s something real that came from something internal — and often chaotic.

We’re used to jobs paying for time: £25 an hour, 40 hours a week, four weeks a month. That’s a system that makes sense to most people. But art doesn’t fit neatly into that box. It’s not that simple.

When I price my work, it’s complicated. My relationship with money is… strained. I don’t really have much, but when I do, I tend to spend it — impulsively or out of need, not excess. And I remind myself: millionaires aren’t millionaires because they’ve spent a million — it’s because they’ve kept it. A strange irony.

I try to price my paintings fairly — to reflect the hours, the energy, the skill, the emotion. Most of my pieces fall between £200 and £500. The smaller ones, or the ones I can recreate, are less. The more involved, intense, layered pieces — those climb to £800–£1400. That range feels like it reflects the focus and emotional weight behind them.

Art on a refurbished bus - the circular Artspace gallery

But I know it’s hard. Not everyone has that kind of money. I often wonder who’s able to afford original art, and even more — who wants to. That’s why, when someone buys a painting from me — especially when they come back again — it means everything. It’s not a cold business exchange. It’s an exchange of energy. A connection. A moment of being seen.

For me, art isn’t just something I do — it’s all I can do. I’ve tried so many jobs, and each one took something from me — often ending with my health in pieces. Art is what remains. I paint when I have the energy, and when I don’t, I rest. I post, I share, I hope. Even when it’s exhausting.

What I create isn’t just paint and canvas. Materials aren’t the most expensive part — it’s the intention, the human effort, the spark. That’s what makes it valuable. Maybe even a little luxurious — not in a flashy, elite way, but in the way anything handcrafted, emotional, and real is.

Supporting artists — financially or emotionally — means supporting someone’s ability to keep creating. To live a creative life. That can sound selfish when I say it out loud, but it’s the truth. Originals are more than prints and merch. They carry a piece of the artist, and they help keep the lights on in more ways than one.

I still feel weird asking for money for my art. But I need space. I need to eat. I need to keep going.

My home is full of art — fast sketches, half-finished thoughts, projects that took days, weeks, or months. Every piece I make carries a different rhythm. So when you buy a painting, you’re not just getting something to hang on a wall. You’re keeping an artist moving. You’re fueling morale. You’re becoming a part of the story. A quiet patron of someone’s vision.

And for that, I’m grateful beyond words.

The Value of Art (And Why It’s More Than a Price Tag)

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