Art has always been a mirror, reflecting not just the world around us but the intricacies within us. We’re told that biases colour our perceptions, and nowhere is this truer than in the way we engage with art. A portrait hanging in a sunlit apartment, a splash of abstract colour in a bustling cafe, or a child’s finger-painting taped to a refrigerator- each piece carries a story shaped by the eyes that behold it. But what happens when we strip away the noise of others’ expectations and let art speak solely to “us”?

The lens of bias: Why we see what we see

Our relationship with art is deeply personal, a dance between memory, emotion, and circumstance. A historical masterpiece might move one person to tears while leaving another indifferent. A graffiti mural could ignite nostalgia in someone who grew up in a city’s pulse but confuse a viewer from quieter landscapes. These biases aren’t flaws - they’re proof that art is alive, shifting with our histories and hopes. Portraits, in particular, become more than decor; they become silent companions in our homes, witnesses to our daily lives. But who decides what “belongs” on our walls? The answer, often, is our subconscious - curating pieces that whisper, “Yes, this is where I’m meant to be.”

Art in unexpected places

There’s a persistent myth that art demands high ceilings, white walls, the glow of museum lighting. But art doesn’t require permission to exist. I recently experimented with Smartist, an AI tool that transforms ideas into visual creations, and the process reminded me of something vital: art thrives in the imperfect, the ordinary, the chaotic. Whether it’s a smartphone sketch shared online or a canvas propped against a studio apartment’s peeling wallpaper, art adapts. It isn’t confined by frames or socioeconomic boundaries. It blooms in cracks, on screens, in cramped spaces and cluttered minds.

The heartbeat of creation

We’re taught to chase the technical mastery, the method of creating brushstrokes, the master composition. I have been doing it myself, seriously studying master copies and I will not stop doing it. However, what if art’s true power lies not in flawlessness, but in its ability to make us “feel”? Think of Van Gogh’s starry nights, swirling with emotion far beyond astronomical accuracy. Or Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits, raw and unapologetic in their vulnerability. These works endure not because they’re perfect, but because they pulse with humanity. When used Smartist, I didn’t seek polished outcomes; I sought echoes of my inner world. The resulting images were deeply mine. Art, after all, is a conversation with the self.

So let’s abandon the pressure to perform. Hang that quirky print in your rental kitchen. Doodle in the margins of your notebook. Let your creations be messy, strange, and unedited. Art isn’t merely a product, it’s a dialogue. And in the quiet moments, where the world isn’t watching, lean in. What do you hear?

Your art is whispering. Are you listening?