What can I learn from Van Gogh in 2025?

It’s hard to think of another artist whose life has been mythologized more than Vincent van Gogh’s. But when I look past the swirling legend of the tortured genius, what I find is something more real—and more relevant to my own life as an artist in 2025: someone who loved color, nature, and people with his whole heart. Someone who kept painting, even when the world didn’t understand him.

Van Gogh’s story is often framed as a tragedy, but honestly, I see something else in it: courage. He made more than 2,000 works of art, mostly in just 10 years, and sold only one painting during his lifetime. To me, that is mind numbing. I would have given up. He did not. And the context in which he painted was that of pain: he struggled deeply—with mental illness, isolation, poverty—but he still got up, day after day, and painted. That level of commitment moves me. It reminds me that success isn’t always external. Sometimes, I think that the act of creating itself is the victory.

“What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”

He wasn’t afraid of emotion. Van Gogh didn’t paint to impress—he painted to express. His landscapes pulse with movement. His portraits radiate empathy. There’s nothing cool or distant about his work; it’s raw, honest, and alive. In a time like ours, when irony and perfection are everywhere, his sincerity feels like a deep breath of fresh air.

He also found beauty in the ordinary—in sunflowers, in shoes, in a small room with a wooden bed. That has stayed with me. It reminds me to look closely, to stay present, to find meaning in things that might seem small.

And despite his struggles, Van Gogh never gave up on the idea that art could be healing—not just for the world, but for himself. That’s something I carry with me. The studio can be a refuge. The brush can be a lifeline.

Van Gogh’s life wasn’t easy. But it was brave. And for those of us still trying to make sense of the world through color, texture, and light, his example is a kind of compass—pointing us toward honesty, vulnerability, and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need approval to matter.

What can I learn from Renoir in 2025?

As I reflect on my own practice in 2025, I keep coming back to artists whose lives were shaped not just by what they created, but by how they saw the world. Pierre-Auguste Renoir is one of those artists. His work feels joyful and alive—but what I find even more compelling is the way he chose to live and work, especially in the face of challenge.

Renoir believed that art should be beautiful. That may sound simple, even old-fashioned, but in a time like ours—when so much art is expected to be urgent, edgy, or politically charged—it’s refreshing to remember that joy, tenderness, and pleasure are valid, even radical, subjects.

“I just let my brush go; I try to paint my joy, my feeling.”

There’s a warmth in Renoir’s work that feels deeply human. He painted people—friends, family, everyday scenes—not as symbols or statements, but as living, breathing beings. And that reminds me that even now, when so much is mediated through screens, art can still be intimate. Personal. Close.

Renoir’s commitment to painting didn’t fade, even as his health did. In his later years, he suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis. He couldn’t walk easily. His hands were twisted. And still—he painted. He had brushes strapped to his fingers. Helpers moved the canvas for him. That resilience humbles me. It makes it harder to justify the times I put off painting because I’m tired, distracted, or self-critical.

There’s also something beautiful in the way Renoir never stopped evolving. His style shifted—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically—but he never lost that core sense of affection for life. Even in pain, he saw color. He saw beauty. He believed in making something that lifted the spirit.

Renoir’s life reminds me that art doesn’t have to shout to be meaningful. It can be gentle. It can be beautiful. It can be kind. And honestly, in 2025, maybe we need more of that, right?

What can I learn from Claude Monet in 2025?

As an artist in 2025, I often feel pulled in a dozen directions—by trends, deadlines, social media, and the constant churn of what’s next. But whenever I revisit the life of Claude Monet, I feel something settle inside me (and considering the fact Monet is world famous, I assume I’m not alone here). His story isn’t just part of art history—it feels like a quiet, steady voice reminding me what really matters as an artist.

One of the things I appreciate most about Monet is that he stayed true to his vision, even when critics dismissed his work and galleries rejected him. “Impressionism” started as a put-down. But he kept painting what he saw: fleeting light, shifting weather, reflections on water. His commitment to his own way of seeing feels especially powerful now, when it’s easy to lose your voice in the noise.

“Creative depth comes from attention, not novelty.”

Monet’s habit of painting in series—his haystacks, cathedrals, water lilies—wasn’t just repetition. It was deep exploration and I LOVE that that whole idea: You don’t always need a new subject, just a new way of seeing what’s in front of you.

He was also deeply connected to nature. Painting outdoors, cultivating his own garden at Giverny—it was all part of his practice. In an increasingly digital world, that physical connection to the land and seasons feels more vital than ever. I try to remember that when I need to reset: step outside, pay attention, slow down.

Monet also knew how to endure. He painted through grief, through financial hardship, and even as his vision deteriorated. Those late Water Lilies, so dreamlike and abstract, came from a place of both loss and peace. It’s a reminder that art can age with us—and carry us through all kinds of seasons.

And maybe most importantly, Monet shaped a world around him that fed his creativity. His home and garden were part of the work. That idea—that we can build environments that nurture our art—feels incredibly relevant to me now.

Monet’s life reminds me that being an artist is about more than producing work. It’s about staying present, staying curious, and staying true—even when no one’s watching.

Using Complimentary Colors for Shading

Most people, when shading something, instinctively just add black or gray to darken a color. But there’s a much more vibrant and interesting way: using complementary colors for shading!

Instead of mixing black into a color (which can sometimes make it look dull or muddy), you can shade by adding a bit of its complementary color. For example, if you’re painting a bright yellow lemon, instead of reaching for black to create shadows, you could mix a little purple into your yellow. The result? A deeper, richer shadow that still feels colorful and alive.

“The key is blending gently.”

This trick works because complementary colors naturally tone each other down without making the color look lifeless. It also keeps your artwork looking more dynamic and natural, especially since shadows in real life often have subtle color shifts rather than being just plain gray.

Here’s a quick tip: the key is blending gently. You usually don’t want a harsh clash between the two complements — just a subtle shift that deepens the color. Start by adding tiny amounts of the complementary color and adjust until you get the shade you want.

Complementary shading is especially popular in painting, but it also works great in colored pencil work, pastels, or digital art. It’s one of those small techniques that can make your colors feel more professional and full of life.

Once you get the hang of it, you’ll wonder how you ever shaded without it!

How and When to use Complimentary Colors

Complementary colors are one of the simplest but most powerful tools an artist can use to make their work pop. These are colors that sit opposite each other on the color wheel — like red and green, blue and orange, or yellow and purple. When placed side by side, complementary colors create a strong contrast that can instantly catch a viewer’s eye.

The best time to use complementary colors is when you want to create energy, excitement, or a clear focal point in your art. For example, if you paint a bright orange sunset behind a deep blue ocean, both colors will look more vibrant because of how they react against each other. The contrast makes each color seem even more intense.

“The best time to use complementary colors is when you want to create energy…”

You can also use complementary colors in smaller doses to draw attention to specific areas of a painting. A mostly green landscape with a few bright red flowers will naturally guide the viewer’s eye to the flowers without needing any extra tricks.

However, it’s important to use complementary colors thoughtfully. Too much of them side by side can be overwhelming or even uncomfortable to look at. One trick is to choose one color as the dominant color and use its complement just for accents. This creates a balanced, dynamic effect without overpowering the piece.

Complementary colors are not just for paintings, either. Designers, photographers, and even fashion stylists use them to create bold, memorable looks.

Once you start paying attention, you’ll see complementary colors everywhere — in nature, in ads, in your favorite artworks. Learning how and when to use them gives your art an extra level of impact that feels both exciting and natural.

Perspective in Art 101: How to Make Your Drawings Pop Off the Page

Have you ever seen a painting that looks so real, it feels like you could step right into it? That’s thanks to perspective — the artist’s secret weapon for making flat surfaces feel deep and full of space.

At its core, perspective is all about creating the illusion of depth. Early artists didn’t really use it, which is why medieval paintings often look a little flat and stacked. But once the Renaissance rolled around, artists like Brunelleschi and Leonardo da Vinci figured out the magic of linear perspective. The trick? Parallel lines seem to meet at a point on the horizon, called the vanishing point. Imagine standing on a long road and watching the sides of the road appear to get closer together far off in the distance — that’s perspective doing its thing.

But there’s more! Artists also use size to show distance — closer objects look bigger, and faraway ones shrink. They layer and overlap shapes to show what’s in front and what’s behind. Plus, there’s a cool trick called atmospheric perspective: colors get lighter, bluer, and blurrier the farther away something is, just like real mountains look hazier from far away.

The best part? You don’t need to be a master to start using perspective in your own art. Start by finding the horizon line, pick a vanishing point, and let your lines guide you. It can turn a simple sketch of a street, a building, or even a forest into something that feels way more alive.

So next time you look at a painting — or try one yourself — pay attention to how space is created. Perspective isn’t just a fancy art word — it’s the key to making your drawings pop off the page and pull people right in.

How to Really Understand Medieval Art

Understanding medieval art is kind of like stepping into a totally different world. It’s not about what looks realistic or even “pretty” by today’s standards — it’s about meaning, faith, and community. To really get it, you have to let go of modern ideas about art being just for self-expression or decoration.

First off, almost everything in medieval art ties back to religion. Christianity wasn’t just a part of life back then — it was life. Most people couldn’t read, so art was how stories from the Bible were taught and remembered. Every little detail had a purpose. If you don’t know that a lamb usually represents Jesus, or that a lily stands for purity, you’ll miss half the story that’s being told. Learning the common symbols feels like cracking a secret code.

Most people couldn’t read, so art was how stories from the Bible were taught and remembered.

It also helps to know that medieval artists weren’t trying to invent new styles or be different for the sake of it. They were part of a long tradition, and their main goal was to honor their faith and their community. The chunky, heavy Romanesque churches and the soaring, light-filled Gothic cathedrals show how different styles reflected different ways of thinking about God and heaven.

Another big thing: medieval art wasn’t usually made by one “famous artist” working alone. It was a team effort, often created for churches, monasteries, or guilds. It’s less about personal fame and more about a shared belief system.

And honestly, understanding medieval art takes some patience. It’s not meant to impress you at first glance. You have to slow down, look closer, and learn its language. Once you do, it’s like the artwork starts talking back to you — and it’s saying some pretty deep things about faith, fear, hope, and beauty.

Staying Creative

When I think about the most creative people I know, I don’t think of famous artists or designers—I think of kids. They’ll turn a stick into a sword, a blanket into a cape, and a cardboard box into a spaceship without hesitation. No second guessing. Just pure imagination. Somewhere along the way, most of us lose that. But I’ve realized it doesn’t have to be gone for good.

For me, staying creative like a kid starts with staying curious. I try to ask more questions—not just about art, but about everything. Why does light hit that wall like that? What would happen if I mixed these two ideas? When I stay curious, I stay open—and that’s when the good stuff starts to show up.

Another thing I’ve learned: play matters. I used to think every creative session had to be productive. Now, I let myself mess around more. I scribble, I doodle, I experiment with no real goal. That’s when things get interesting—when there’s no pressure to be brilliant.

“…play matters.”

And honestly, I’ve had to work on letting go of the fear of looking ridiculous. Kids don’t care if their drawing makes sense—they’re just in it for the joy. I try to tap into that. The less I judge my work while I’m making it, the freer I feel.

I also find that reconnecting with my senses—walking outside, watching how shadows move, noticing tiny details—keeps me grounded and inspired. The world is full of little sparks if I actually take the time to look.

Mostly, I just try to keep that sense of wonder alive. The world’s still magical, if I let it be. And when I do, creativity follows—just like it did when I was a kid.

AT Experience

A few weeks ago, I hiked a short stretch of the Appalachian Trail—not the whole thing, just a few miles, but enough to feel something shift. I didn’t go with a plan, really. I just packed my water, a small sketchbook, and hit the trail early in the morning, hoping to clear my head. What I didn’t expect was how much that walk would quietly reshape the way I paint.

There’s a rhythm to walking through the woods. Footstep after footstep, heartbeat steady, breath syncing with the rise and fall of the trail. I found myself noticing things I usually pass by—a single red leaf clinging to a branch, the soft decay of mossy logs, the shimmer of morning light through mist. Each detail felt like its own painting.

When I got home, I couldn’t shake that feeling. Instead of rushing to paint something “impressive,” I started working slower, letting my brush follow the same kind of quiet pace I had on the trail. The work became more about atmosphere and feeling than precision. My colors shifted—more earth tones, more soft transitions. I wanted the viewer to feel what I felt out there: stillness, awe, and a gentle sense of presence.

That short hike reminded me that art doesn’t always come from pushing harder. Sometimes it’s about stepping back, getting quiet, and letting the world come to you. The trail gave me that. And now, every time I paint, I try to carry a little piece of that forest with me. Just a few miles—but they went a long way.

Go Take a Walk!

There’s something magical about taking a walk in the woods early in the morning. When the world is still quiet and the sun is just beginning to filter through the trees, everything feels a little more open—especially my mind. It’s during these moments, with no distractions and no pressure, that I feel the most creatively free.

In the woods, the noise of everyday life fades away. There are no emails to answer, no deadlines to meet—just the sound of birds waking up, leaves whispering in the breeze, and my own footsteps on the trail. It’s a kind of peace I don’t find anywhere else, and it gives my mind the space it needs to breathe. With that space, new ideas seem to come more easily, almost effortlessly. Thoughts connect in unexpected ways, and I often find myself inspired by the simplest things—a pattern of light, the texture of bark, or the way the air smells after it rains.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter. The things I’ve been stuck on or overthinking suddenly don’t feel so heavy. My brain resets a little, and with that comes a fresh wave of creativity. Whether I’m writing, sketching, or just trying to solve a problem, the woods always help me see things from a new angle.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter.

What’s even more special is the time alone with my thoughts. Out there, it’s just me and the trees, and something about that allows me to dig a little deeper. I get more honest with myself, and that honesty feeds my creative work in a big way. It’s like I can hear my own voice more clearly, without all the noise.

So for me, a walk in the woods isn’t just a walk. It’s a reset, a source of inspiration, and a reminder that creativity doesn’t have to be forced—it just needs room to grow.

In morning light, the forest wakes,
A hush beneath the pine and brakes.
The world falls quiet, thoughts run free,
As whispers drift from tree to tree.

Each leaf, a spark; each breeze, a guide,
To places hiding deep inside.
The path unwinds, the clutter clears,
Ideas bloom where once were fears.

No screens, no noise, just earth and air,
And sudden truth found everywhere.
In solitude, I find my start—
The woods redraw the map of heart.

A walk, but more—a sacred space,
Where stillness makes the mind embrace
Its wildest, truest, untamed grace.