WHAT MAKES AN ARTIST AN ARTIST?

 

Lately, I have been seeing a lot of sip and paint events around Nairobi. They look fun… honestly, something I would probably enjoy doing myself just for the experience. But watching them has also made me think.

Sometimes it almost feels like there is no seriousness left in being an artist.

I see the paintings people make at these events and the way the activity is treated as something casual, a hobby, an evening out, something to pass the time. It almost makes me feel like everyone can paint. Give someone a brush, some paint, and whatever they produce is considered art.

And maybe it is.

After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

So, then the question starts creeping in: what actually makes an artist an artist?

Is it talent?
Is it training?
Is it whether people buy your work?
Or whether you can make a career out of it?

If you create but you cannot sell your work, does that mean you are not an artist?

That question sits with me sometimes.

Unlike professions like medicine or law, creativity does not come with clear measurements. A doctor is a doctor because they studied, trained, and qualified. But with art, there is no universal certificate that says you are officially an artist now.

Anyone can look at your work and decide they do not like it. Someone else might see the same piece and feel something deeply.

So, who decides?

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Also, as a photographer, I often think about photography.

Today, everyone carries a camera in their pocket. Every phone can take a picture. But not every photo is taken with intention. Not every image is trying to say something.

So, what turns that ability into a craft?

When does someone with a camera become a photographer?

Maybe the same question exists with every form of creativity.

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Being an artist feels emotional because the work is never separate from you. Your thoughts, your feelings, your perspective, they all find their way into what you create.

And when someone criticizes that work, it can feel strangely personal. Almost as if they are criticizing a part of you.

There are times I have even thought it might be easier to focus on something I am good at but not emotionally tied to. Something where my identity isn't trapped in the result.

Art does not allow that kind of distance.

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Then I think about something else.

I am always writing things down, capturing thoughts. Turning them into content.

Who says I am not a writer?

Who determines that?

The more I think about it, the more I realize something about myself: I like preserving moments. Whether through images or words… I like capturing my thoughts before they disappear.

Almost like keeping time inside a glass jar.

The way a painting or photograph might… words become a way to hold onto something that would otherwise pass.

A memory.
A feeling.
A realization.

And when I look back at something I wrote, captured, or painted months or years ago, it becomes a path of remembrance, a way of seeing who I was at that moment.

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Maybe that is what artists are doing.

We are trying to capture something that would otherwise disappear.

Sometimes that capture interrupts the moment itself. We pause life to photograph it, paint it, write it, record it.

But maybe that interruption is part of the process.

Maybe art is simply the act of paying attention to something long enough to preserve it.

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So what makes an artist an artist?

I think it might be this:

An artist is someone who gives meaning to what they create.

Not because everyone else sees it.

But because they do.

The moment you decide that what you are creating matters, that it carries a thought, a feeling, a memory, or a perspective, you have already stepped into the role.

The world may recognize it or it may not.

People may buy it or they may not.

But the act itself, the intention to capture, express, and preserve something meaningful, is what makes the work art.

And maybe the real question is not whether the world calls you an artist.

Maybe the real question is whether you are brave enough to call yourself one.

 

THE QUIET WEIGHT OF ABILITY

 

There comes a time when effort has stretched itself thin across the years.

You try.
You attempt.
You reach toward becoming someone, something, anything that resembles the image of arrival.

And yet, somehow, the outcome returns unchanged.

Not once, but repeatedly.
Until failure begins to echo louder than effort ever did.

It is a strange place to stand in, the place where victories no longer feel like victories. They exist, yes, but they are dimmed by the long shadow of attempts that never quite took root. Wins begin to feel small, as though they were cancelled out somewhere in the arithmetic of expectation.

In a world that measures worth by visible milestones… homes built, families raised, careers rising like well-constructed towers, ability becomes a kind of currency. One is valued according to what one can convert one's talents into.

And when the conversion seems to stall, something subtle begins to erode.

The question is no longer what can you do?
It becomes what have you managed to become?

Talents may still exist, resting quietly in the hands that hold them. But the world is less interested in the existence of ability than in its outcomes. What it produces. What it proves. What can it be turned into?

So, the gifts remain… present, real, yet suspended in a strange stillness. Not absent, but not advancing either. Like seeds waiting in soil that refuses to decide whether it will rain.

And people notice.

Not always with cruelty. Sometimes, it's simply a matter of convenience.

Abilities attract attention; they are inviting. Strings appear where none were tied before. At first, they seem harmless threads of opportunity, small invitations to pull in a certain direction.

You pull them, thinking you are guiding something forward.

Only later do you begin to notice that the movement did not entirely belong to you.

There is another hand somewhere above the stage.

And for a moment, when those strings are pulled, something moves.
Work happens.
Results appear.
There are even moments of praise.

Like a puppet stepping briefly into the light, the motions are graceful enough to draw applause. From the outside, it appears like mastery of a performance unfolding exactly as it should.

But the strange thing about strings is that they are rarely visible to the audience.

The hands above remain unseen.
The credit travels in curious directions.
And the puppet, though it moves beautifully, does not always control the dance.

Still, survival has its own quiet negotiations.

Sometimes one allows the strings to remain, not out of weakness, but out of the simple human need to feel movement again. To feel that effort is still capable of producing something, even if the direction is not entirely yours.

You tell yourself, perhaps this will lead somewhere.
Perhaps something will gather from it.
Perhaps the effort will eventually accumulate into meaning.

But there are seasons when it does not.

And so, the feeling grows, the sense of standing at the edge of a deepening hollow. Not a collapse, not a dramatic fall, but a slow descent carved out by time and unanswered effort.

Yet strangely, it is never completely dark.

From somewhere above, faint sounds continue to reach you.

They are the echoes of appreciation.
The distant recognition of the work itself.
The quiet acknowledgment that something valuable passed through your hands.

Those echoes are curious things. They are not ladders, and they do not always lift you out. But they keep the surface visible. They remind you that what you carry has weight, even if the world has not yet decided what to build with it.

And perhaps that is where the quiet truth sits.

Potential is a strange companion. It teases, yes, but it also refuses to disappear. It lingers stubbornly beside reality like a distant ladder, even when reality feels heavier.

So, you continue.

Not loudly.
Not with spectacle.
But with endurance.

And maybe that is the part rarely spoken of: some lives are not defined by dramatic arrival, but by persistence in places where meaning has not yet fully revealed itself.

For anyone who finds themselves in such a season where effort feels invisible and outcomes remain uncertain, know this:

Ability does not vanish simply because the world has not yet built a monument around it.

Some seeds remain underground longer than others.
Some paths reveal themselves only after long stretches of walking in quiet.

And sometimes the most powerful act is simply this:

To remain.

To keep creating.
To keep offering what exists within your hands.

Because even when the surface does not immediately change, the presence of ability itself is never empty.

It is simply waiting for the moment when its direction finally becomes clear.

 

THE VALUE OF TIME: MEASURING WORTH BEYOND THE CLOCK

 

Time is one of the most fascinating concepts we live by.

We’ve measured it so precisely in seconds, minutes, hours, and years. We quantify it. We schedule it. We sell it. We trade it. We even attach monetary value to it.

And yet, the same hour can mean everything to one person and almost nothing to another.

For someone, one hour may be a break between meetings.
For another, it may be the only hour they have to create.
For someone else, it may be the hour that changes their life.

What I find beautiful is that despite our individual timelines, we can merge them. We can agree to meet at a specific place and time. Different lives. Different ages. Different journeys. And yet, for that moment, our time aligns.

But even alignment doesn’t erase the difference.

We may exist in the same physical hour, but we are not in the same season of life. Some are just beginning. Some are rebuilding. Some are accelerating. Some are resting.

Measured by years, our timelines stretch differently.
Measured by presence, they sometimes intersect perfectly.

Time and Worth

There is also something deeper in the way we measure our worth through time.

In corporate spaces, time is directly tied to income. You work an hour; you are paid for that hour. There is a rhythm. A predictability. A structure.

But artists live differently.

Creatives don’t always get paid by the hour. We might receive a large amount at once and then nothing for weeks. We plant seeds constantly: ideas, projects, proposals, collaborations, not knowing which will bear fruit.

And that uncertainty can be unsettling.

Maybe that is where the anxiety creeps in.
Not because we lack talent.
Not because we lack discipline.
But because our time is not linearly rewarded.

We create today for income that may come months later.
We invest hours into something that may never sell.
We build foundations we hope will eventually hold weight.

It requires faith. Planning. Endurance.

Generational Timelines

Then there’s the generational comparison.

We look at those older than us, the “boomer” generation, and see what they were able to accomplish at our age. Homes. Stability. Assets. Expansion.
And we wonder why it feels harder now.

But timelines are shaped by environments. Economies shift. Opportunities change. Costs rise. Technology transforms industries. The landscape is not the same.

In our era, advancement happens at a breathtaking pace. Entire industries rise and fall within a decade. Skills expire quickly. Trends move overnight. We are expected to adapt constantly to learn, relearn, pivot, and reinvent ourselves.

And sometimes, quietly, we wonder:
What were the others doing when things moved more slowly?
Was it easier to build when the ground wasn’t shifting beneath your feet?

Yet even that question is incomplete.

Every generation carries its own pressures. The difference is that ours moves faster, louder, and more visible. Progress is instant. Comparison is constant. And the clock feels less patient.

So, comparing timelines without comparing contexts is unfair to ourselves.

We are not behind.
We are navigating a different era.

The Beauty of Individual Time

What fascinates me most is that despite our different circumstances, we coexist in the same spaces coherently.

Different incomes.
Different responsibilities.
Different backgrounds.
Different outcomes.

And yet, here we are sharing rooms, conversations, collaborations, and friendships.

Maybe time isn’t meant to be compared.
Maybe it’s meant to be experienced.

Measured yes.
But not used as a weapon against ourselves.

Because your timeline is not late.
It is unfolding.

Each of our timelines is unique, yet intertwined. The real gift of time is not in comparison or accumulation, but in the awareness with which we experience it in the connections we make, the lives we witness, and the ways we coexist even when our clocks run differently.

Time is measured, yes, but never against ourselves. It is ours to inhabit fully, consciously, and with grace.

 

 

VISUAL INTERPRETATION AND THE POWER OF STORYTELLING

 

I recently found myself reflecting on Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s talk, The Danger of a Single Story. And naturally, I related it to my art.

The beauty of an image, especially when paired with a caption, is that we give meaning to it by the story we decide to tell.

Take the image you’re looking at, for instance: the girl on the train.

We see dark skies. Immediately, questions arise. Is it late evening? Or an early morning commute? She’s holding a hot beverage, coffee perhaps, or tea, something to warm her up and start her day. Or maybe she’s wrapping up the day in a cold winter in New York, holding a hot chocolate to fight the chill. She’s dressed warmly after all.

But then… does it even have to be a train?

Could she be on a bus in a cold July in Kenya? Starting her journey from the city, leaving for the countryside? Or maybe she’s not traveling far at all, maybe she’s simply stuck in Nairobi traffic, holding her cup of tea as the morning drags on. Watching the world move slowly outside her window.

The narrative belongs to you.

And that’s the beauty of art, it is open to interpretation.

That’s why I speak about the danger of a single story.

As an artist, I always find it interesting when I’m asked to explain my art. Most times, I draw led by emotion. I channel my imagination based on what inspires me in that moment. I am not always planning every detail or mapping out the meaning beforehand. I create first. I feel first. And then once it’s complete, I’m almost forced to give it meaning.

It feels like working backwards.

Painting without fully knowing what will come out of it, and only afterward asking myself, what does this make me feel? What is this saying?

And once I articulate that meaning, it can sometimes feel like that becomes the “official” version. As though everyone must now see it that way. Whether it was intentional or not. Whether the moment was simply driven by instinct, emotion, and my dependence on my talent.

But here’s the irony.

Sometimes we do plan. Sometimes we draw based on what we see around us. The themes we set. The environments we’re placed in. The inspiration that meets us in a particular season. And so, we create intentionally.

Yet even then, once the artwork is complete, it no longer belongs to us alone.

Because an image is always open to interpretation.

And I believe that’s the real beauty of art.

What you see.
What you feel.
What meaning do you attach to it?

Not just as the artist, but as the viewer upon completion.

It becomes a conversation. It can determine whether we connect. Whether we see the same thing or something entirely different. And honestly, that difference is the fun part.

Do we all have to see one story because of its description?

Or can we allow ourselves to see something else?

Let me know what you see.

Maybe she’s thinking about her day. Maybe she’s reflecting. Maybe the train is moving. Maybe it’s at a standstill. Maybe you relate to her. Maybe you believe she’s carrying thoughts you’ve carried before during your own quiet commute.

And here’s something else I’ve realized: the meaning can change over time.

The way you see a piece today may not be how you see it tomorrow. Your experiences shift. Your emotions evolve. And suddenly the same image carries a completely different story.

There’s so much we can see in a single image.

And that to me is the beauty of it all.

 

LOVE, INDEPENDENCE & THE QUIET BALANCE BETWEEN US

 

As the years pass and I grow older, I have come to a quiet realization: I am single. I have been single for a long time. And chances are, I may remain that way.

Strangely, that truth does not scare me.

Because I have been single longer than I have ever been in a relationship, I have grown comfortable with it. I have learned how to exist fully on my own. And that comfort has made me question something deeper: Why are we raised expecting partnership as a guaranteed destination? Why is it presented as the norm, the goal, the inevitable outcome?

Especially for women.

From a young age, many of us are taught to look forward to marriage, to children, to building a home. We are told, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully, that our lives will naturally unfold this way. There is even the assumption that children will care for us in old age, as if old age itself is promised. As if life does not hold uncertainty. As if the roles assigned to us are contracts signed before we are born.

But life is not that linear. Nothing is guaranteed. We could leave this world early. We could leave children behind. We could choose not to have them. We could simply choose differently or find that, for reasons beyond our control, a suitable partner never quite comes along.

And that is where the real conversation begins: the assumptions of roles.

The Shifting Roles & The Growing Gap

Relationships today are not what they were decades ago. The balance has shifted.

There was a time when women needed men for financial security, physical protection, and social legitimacy. Over time, women were trained, sometimes by necessity, to be physically and mentally independent. Many learned to provide for themselves. To build. To secure. To survive.

But while women were evolving into independence, many men were not equally trained to be emotionally independent or domestically capable. In conversations I’ve had with men in my life, a pattern emerges: men were not raised to cook, nurture, self-soothe, or manage a home in the same way women were raised to build resilience and autonomy.

And so a gap formed.

Some men laugh at the idea of women growing old alone with cats. Yet those same women have often been taught how to survive independently. They have been trained to build security. They have been taught intentionally or unintentionally to carry both the “masculine” and “feminine” responsibilities.

Meanwhile, some men were taught that their traditional roles were superior. That providing financially alone defined their worth. And when women began filling those spaces themselves, it disrupted the hierarchy.

Suddenly, the question becomes: If a woman can provide security for herself, what does she need a man for?

And that question is uncomfortable.

Competition Instead of Collaboration

Some of what we see today is not partnership, it is competition.

Some men resent women’s independence because it removes the leverage once tied to reproduction and dependency. Some women feel men are unnecessary because they have filled the gaps themselves. Both sides are reacting to change rather than learning to adapt within it.

But relationships were never meant to be competitions.

It takes two to tango.

The missing piece is not dominance. It is balance.

Faith, Change & The Balance of Authority

Even in scripture, the conversation is more nuanced than we often admit.

The Bible speaks of men as heads of households, but it also instructs husbands to love their wives deeply and to listen to them. It calls for submission, but it also calls for sacrificial love. Both can be true at the same time.

Submission without love becomes control.
Leadership without listening becomes dictatorship.

Time itself is God-created. Growth is inevitable. If we refuse to grow with time, are we becoming wiser or simply more rigid?

Traditionally, women were expected to submit physically, to rely on men for provision and security. At the same time, women were often the emotional core of the relationship: nurturing, understanding, holding the emotional atmosphere together.

Men were expected to provide physically. Women were expected to sustain themselves emotionally.

It created a symbiotic balance.

He offered structure and protection in the external world.
She offered emotional depth and relational grounding in the internal world.

Both forms of strength were necessary. Both required trust.

But now that many women can provide their own security, the structure shifts. When physical reliance is no longer essential, what replaces it?

Emotional connection.
Shared purpose.
Mutual respect.

The balance is no longer about survival. It is about intentional unity.

Emotional Intelligence & Loyalty

Another uncomfortable truth: we are not as different as we pretend to be.

Men are often raised to detach emotionally and tie intimacy primarily to desire. Women are often raised to attach emotionally and detach from physical autonomy. But in reality, both men and women are emotional beings.

Men with emotional intelligence, those who are self-aware and emotionally available, tend to build longer, healthier relationships. Loyalty is tied to emotional attachment. When you are deeply connected to someone, betrayal costs more.

Detachment, on the other hand, breeds chaos. It creates emptiness. It builds cycles of dissatisfaction and infidelity, not because desire is strong, but because connection is weak.

Emotional maturity is not feminine. It is human.

Choosing Peace Over Pressure

And so here I am.

Comfortable.
Traveling when I can.
Making decisions for myself.
Living alright, even with limited resources, because my needs are my own.

I do not worry about leaving children behind. I do not live in fear of dying alone. I have been privileged enough to know love in other forms… family, friends, community. I have been cared for. And because of that, I have so much love to give.

To myself.
To others where needed.

I no longer long for the trap that society insists is mandatory. If a partnership comes, it will be a partnership of balance, not necessity. Not fear. Not social pressure.

If it does not, I am still whole.

And that, too, is love.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

MANAGING MY EXPECTATIONS

Lately, I have been managing my expectations.

It’s not something I set out to do intentionally. It happened quietly, over time. Somewhere between trying and failing, hoping and adjusting, I realized that nothing really phases me anymore. I don’t get overly excited. I don’t look too far ahead. Excitement, for me, has learned to walk hand in hand with disappointment, and I got tired of that pairing.

I don’t think this came from one specific event. It’s a collection of experiences layered on top of each other. A lack of job opportunities. A lack of visible victories. A lack of recognition in spaces where effort is supposed to matter. I have made peace with the fact that you will never catch me in a competition. Not because I don’t try, but because I know what losing feels like. I know it too well.

Winning has never been my forte. I am not the person with the loud success story or the dramatic breakthrough. I am usually on the sidelines, cheering others on, encouraging them, championing their wins. I have become very good at that. Maybe that, in itself, says something about me.

My life with startups has been particularly humbling. I start things with intention, with vision, with effort. But getting them off the ground has always been a struggle. Even when something looks successful from the outside, the reality on the ground tells a different story. Behind the scenes, I am often enduring more than I am gaining.

I think of my magazine often. It existed. People saw it. People acknowledged it. But I spent more keeping it alive than I ever gained from it financially. At best, I received recognition, kind words, encouragement. A thumbs up here. A well done there. I hold on to the hope that my writers got something meaningful from it, even if I didn’t. That thought brings me some comfort.

There are other startups I don’t even have the energy to unpack anymore. Their endings sit quietly in me. What I have learned, over and over again, is that a large social presence does not mean things are going well. Visibility can be misleading. Applause does not pay bills. Likes do not translate into stability. I still try to show up for Spinkly, to keep things going, but even that effort comes with its own weight.

Take my YouTube channel, for example. I put in the work. I plan. I shoot. I edit. I show up. But that effort exists in a vacuum. I cannot monetize. I do not qualify. I do not meet the prerequisites. It is my work, yes, but that seems to be all it is.

People are quick to advise. They tell me what to do. What is expected of me. What worked for them. But what works for one person does not automatically work for another. I seem to exist on the wrong side of victory when it comes to accomplishments and achievements. And when I sit with that truth, I ask myself who to blame.

Sometimes the answer is me. My lack of direction. My fractured sense of purpose. My ambition, chipped away slowly over time. I no longer desire the way I used to. I no longer hunger the same way. There are days I feel emotionally hollow, carried by the waves rather than steering the ship.

I don’t plan much anymore. I just be. I exist because I am here. I write because I can. Not because I am certain anyone will listen, or read, or respond. I am not chasing validation anymore. I am simply documenting my presence.

I close this chapter of complaint carefully. Not because the feelings aren’t real, but because I know how easily reflection can turn into bitterness. Complaining does not change the outcome. If anything, it risks making me ungrateful. And gratitude is something I am constantly reminded I should have.

Despite everything, I am still here. Despite the onlookers. Despite those who quietly pray for my failure or celebrate my struggles. As long as I exist, the story is not fully over. If I can continue, then it is not the end of the road. Not until it actually is.

Success is brutal. People talk about the goal, rarely the journey. And even then, the journey is only admired when it ends well. But what about those who tried and never arrived? What happens to them? Are they forgotten? Are they deemed unworthy? Or are they simply human, navigating a world that does not reward effort equally?

I don’t have the answers. I only have my experience. And for now, managing my expectations is how I survive it.

BEING IN THE RIGHT PLACE, AT THE RIGHT TIME, CHANGES EVERYTHING

 

Like the ocean, I rise, restless, wild, and full of purpose.

There has always been something about the sea that mirrors the creative life so clearly. Its movement is never accidental. Even in its wildness, there is intention. Even in its restlessness, there is direction. The waves do not ask permission to arrive; they come because they are meant to.

And yet, the ocean teaches another truth just as important: it doesn’t rush its tides, yet it always arrives.

Holding both of these ideas together has changed how I understand seasons, especially creative ones. Purpose does not mean panic. Movement does not mean haste. You can be deeply driven and still move with patience.

Creative seasons are not linear. They are cyclical. They rise, retreat, gather, and return. Sometimes they are loud and expressive; other times they are quiet and observant. Both are necessary. Both are valid.

The struggle begins when we try to force purpose into the wrong place or demand arrival before the season is ready.

In the wrong place, even if you give your very best, it will never be enough. You can be full of ideas, vision, and commitment, yet feel constantly behind. You begin to measure yourself harshly, your output, your consistency, your relevance… hoping improvement will finally unlock belonging.

There’s a saying that keeps returning to me: what’s not measured cannot be improved.

But measurement, without discernment, can become a trap.

When you’re in the wrong environment, measurement doesn’t lead to growth; it leads to exhaustion. You improve endlessly but feel unseen. You adjust yourself instead of questioning the space. You mistake refinement for alignment.

Not everything that feels stagnant needs more effort. Some things need relocation.

The right place changes how measurement functions.

In the right place, measurement becomes clarity, not pressure. You notice progress without urgency. You refine without erasing yourself. Growth feels collaborative rather than combative. You are no longer trying to fit your tide into someone else’s shoreline.

And that’s where timing reveals its quiet power.

The ocean never arrives late. It arrives when the conditions are right.

Being at the right place at the right time doesn’t mean you’ve lost your restlessness or your fire. It means your energy finally has somewhere to land. Your purpose is no longer fighting the environment; it’s flowing within it.

This is what a new creative season feels like. Not frantic reinvention, but grounded arrival. Not chasing visibility, but choosing placement. Not proving worth, but recognizing it.

There is a kind of peace that comes when you stop rushing your becoming. When you trust that purpose doesn’t need to shout to be real. When you understand that timing is not delay, it’s preparation.

Like the ocean, you can be wild and intentional at the same time. You can rise with purpose and still move with patience. You can measure what matters without shrinking yourself to fit spaces that were never designed to hold you.

Because when you are in the right place, at the right time, improvement happens naturally. Growth feels honest. And your presence… restless, wild, and full of purpose, is not only enough.

It is celebrated!