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.