ART IS DEAD!

Art is dead, not in a good way, but in a way that almost makes people forget what talent truly is.

The concept of artists has transformed over centuries. There was once a time when artists were deeply appreciated for their skill and talent. In a world where cameras did not exist, we needed artists to paint moments into memory. Artists captured frozen moments in time through portraits created in real-time, where one would pause, sit still, and an artist would carefully paint them into history. That was how people were remembered.

Then came the introduction of cameras. Suddenly, we had a new form of capturing time, a way to preserve reality exactly as it appeared in a specific moment and space. Yet even with photography, people still searched for ways to manipulate reality, reshape it, and mold it into their own concepts and imagination.

But even then, artists were never rendered useless.

There was still an appreciation for effort. For the hours poured into a piece. For the patience, skill, and emotion behind every stroke of a brush. People admired not just the final outcome, but the process itself, the human ability to translate feeling, memory, and reality into something tangible.

Now, however, we have entered an age where effort does not always translate into success, money, or even recognition. So how do we make it count? How do we make our art matter in a world where creativity itself almost feels reduced to entertainment and convenience?

Because what do you mean someone can type a prompt, press a button, and art is generated within seconds by a machine trained on the works of millions of actual artists? A machine that feeds off years of human practice, failure, experimentation, sacrifice, and talent, only to produce something "new" from a few words and a click.

And yet, we still call that art.

Art borrowed from the labor of many, stitched together to impress, and impressive it is. But somewhere in the middle of all this advancement, something quietly changed.

We stopped valuing effort.

We stopped valuing process.

We stopped valuing the human behind the creation.

And suddenly, art began to feel disposable.

Not just the talent itself, but the appreciation for it. Or maybe simply the lack of appreciation altogether.

Because we now live in a world where you constantly have to prove your worth. A world where machines can create faster than you. A world where millions of people, many more skilled than you, are placed in front of your eyes every single day.

And we see it.

We know it.

And somehow, we still cannot compete.

Our hands ache from the hours spent creating, but still, this is who we are.

A lot of us artists are surviving purely on the fact that our art is us. Our talent is not just something we do; it is who we are. It is the one thing we know how to give to the world in the most honest way possible.

And so we keep creating anyway.

Even when it feels unseen.

Even when it feels unappreciated.

Even when the world moves faster than human hands can keep up with.

Perhaps the greatest irony of all is that despite everything I've said, I still find myself using AI. Not because I believe it is better than human creativity, but because it is convenient. It saves time. And in a world where the difference between ten hours of work and ten seconds of generation often goes unnoticed, convenience becomes difficult to ignore.

And it isn't just AI. Every day, I see art being reposted, repurposed, reused, and shared without credit. The work continues to travel, but somewhere along the way, the artist disappears. The creation remains, yet the creator is forgotten.

Maybe that's what I've been grieving all along. Not the technology itself, but the loss of appreciation for the effort, the process, and the human behind the work.

And maybe, just maybe, one day the world will remember what it means to truly feel something made by human hands.

Because talent is still here.

Despite it all, artists are still here.

We never stopped creating.

We simply stopped being appreciated.

Art did not die because talent disappeared.

It died where appreciation ended.

THE ILLUSION OF CONTROL AND THE WEIGHT WE GIVE THINGS

 

There’s something we do so often without even realizing it…
We give things meaning. So much meaning that they begin to control us.

Our emotions start to shift based on whether we have them or not. We feel like we’re missing out, like we’re falling behind, like we should want something simply because everyone else does. And sometimes, when you really pause and think about it… You realize you didn’t even want it to begin with.

But the world is loud.

Social norms, expectations, the people around us, they plant ideas, subtly and consistently. They shape desires we didn’t consciously choose. And before you know it, you’re chasing something out of fear… the fear of missing out, the fear of being left behind, the fear of not fitting into a version of life that was never truly yours.

At the same time, there’s this need to control everything.

To control outcomes. To control people. To control how things turn out.

But control… is limiting.

Because the more I’ve tried to control everything around me, the more I’ve realized how little of it is actually mine to hold. I can’t control whether someone loves me or chooses me. I can’t control whether a company decides to hire me or work with me. I can’t control whether people see value in the things I enjoy or create.

I can’t force people to understand, to agree, or to stay.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

That the only thing I truly have control over… is myself.
My choices. My direction. My response.

So instead of trying to shape everything else, I’m learning to center my desires. To strip them down to what’s actually mine, without the pressure, without the noise of what others think I should want, whether good or bad.

Because influence is powerful.

The same way, as an artist, you can start with a clear vision of what you want to create… and slowly, without even noticing, outside voices begin to shape it. Opinions, trends, expectations, they creep in. And suddenly, what you end up with feels different. Not wrong… just not fully yours.

That’s the weight influence carries.

It can bury your original idea if you give it too much space.

And I’ve come to realize something else too, something that shifted how I see my work as a creative. Creating has never really been the hard part for me.

Starting something, building it, showing up consistently, that part flows. I can create over and over again. Ideas come, and I bring them to life.

And the truth is… people do see it.

They admire it. They acknowledge it. They even see the value in it.

But that’s not the hard part.

The hard part is moving from being seen… to being chosen.

To convince someone to take that extra step, to buy it, to invest in it, to make it theirs. That shift… is where the real challenge lies.

Because that part involves other people.

It’s like publishing a book, you can pour your heart into writing it, designing it, bringing it into existence… and people may praise it, talk about it, even celebrate it.

But getting them to actually take it home? To own it?

That’s a different kind of ability, nature, or force, a different kind of vulnerability.

And maybe that’s where everything connects.

Control. Desire. Influence.

Learning what is mine to carry… and what isn’t.

I can create. I can choose. I can show up.

But I can’t control the moment someone decides, this is for me.

So instead of holding so tightly to outcomes, to validation, to expectations, I’m learning to release. To create from a place that feels true to me, and to let that be enough.

To trust that what is meant for me will find me…
And what isn’t, was never mine to force.

 

BETWEEN WHO WE ARE AND WHO WE SHOW

 

I have this theory.

Everyone is cool… until you know them on a personal level.

On the surface, people shine. The way they carry themselves, the way they speak, how put-together they seem. Attractive. Impressive. Effortless. You look at them and imagine a life that must be soft, beautiful, maybe even perfect.

We assume so much from so little.

But the older I get, the more I sit with people, the more I listen… the more I realize something else entirely.

Everyone is carrying something.

Heavy things.

Unspoken things.

The kind of things that don’t show up in a smile, or a good outfit, or a well-curated post. The kind of things that sit quietly behind the eyes.

And the more I learn about people, the more it almost… breaks something in me.

Maybe it’s because I feel too much.

I don’t just hear people, I absorb them. Their stories don’t pass through me lightly. They stay. They echo. They settle somewhere in my chest like a weight I didn’t ask for but somehow agreed to carry.

And sometimes it feels like too much.

Like the world is heavier than it looks.

Like everyone is walking around with invisible baggage, pretending it’s light.

There are days I almost don’t want to know.

Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much.

Because knowing means feeling.
And feeling means carrying.

……………………………………………………

I think about this sometimes when I look at my family.

I know them.

Not the surface version, the real version. The layered, complicated, imperfect version. I’ve seen the good, the difficult, the quiet struggles… and yet, I love them deeply.

We still fit.

We still choose each other.

And it makes me wonder…

How long does it take to know someone like that?

To get past the version they present to the world?

Because with strangers, it often feels like we are all performing. Softening our edges. Hiding our weight. Wearing versions of ourselves that are easier to accept.

Masks, but beautiful ones.

And maybe… that is why we find ourselves going back to the people who have known us all along. Old friends who feel like family. The ones who have seen us in different seasons and stayed anyway.

Maybe that is why it becomes harder to “network” and build new friendships and relationships the older you get.

Because depth takes time.
Because knowing someone, really knowing them, requires patience, presence, and a willingness to sit with both the light and the heavy.

And not everyone is ready for that.

……………………………………………………

And maybe that’s why pretense feels comfortable.

It’s easier to believe in the highlight reel.

To walk around imagining that everyone is okay. That the world is lighter than it really is. That people are exactly who they present themselves to be.

Social media has perfected this illusion.

We all paint something.

A moment. A mood. A version of ourselves we’re proud of.

Even the people we admire the most, the ones who seem to have everything figured out, show us something curated. Something intentional. Something… incomplete.

And sometimes, we envy that.

We think, I want that life.

But the deeper you go, the more you understand what it took, what it costs, what it carries…

You start to hesitate.

You start to realize: maybe not.

……………………………………………………

And somewhere in that realization, something shifts.

You stop comparing as much.

You stop desiring lives you don’t fully understand.

You start to see your own life… differently.

Your burdens.

Your pace.

Your path.

And you realize something quietly grounding:

Your life is yours for a reason.

Your capacity is not random.

What you carry was not assigned carelessly.

Only God knows what is enough for you.

Not too little.
Not too much.
Just… enough.

……………………………………………………

And in that knowing, there is a kind of peace.

A return to self.

A soft acceptance.

That I am me, fully, intentionally, and not by accident.

With my sensitivity.
With my creativity.
With the way I feel deeply and see deeply, and sometimes carry too much.

Even that has a purpose.

……………………………………………………

Maybe everyone is cool on the surface.

But underneath?

We are all human.

Layered. Complex. Carrying things.

And maybe the goal isn’t to avoid knowing people deeply…

But to learn how to hold that knowledge gently.

Without losing ourselves in it.

Without forgetting this simple truth:

I am enough.

 

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.

---

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.