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.

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.

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.

Periods of Art: Mannerism

The Mannerism period of art history emerged in the late Renaissance, around the early 16th century, and lasted until the beginning of the Baroque period in the early 17th century. It developed as a reaction to the harmonious ideals and balanced compositions of High Renaissance masters such as Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. Instead of striving for ideal beauty and naturalism, Mannerist artists embraced complexity, artificiality, and exaggeration.

Mannerism is characterized by elongated proportions, distorted poses, and ambiguous spatial environments. Figures often appear in unnatural, contorted positions, with exaggerated elegance and tension. Rather than focusing on calm, rational compositions, Mannerist works are often dramatic and emotionally charged, pushing the boundaries of proportion and perspective.

The movement originated in Italy, particularly in Florence and Rome, and was heavily influenced by the later works of Michelangelo, whose muscular, twisting figures and intense emotion were admired and imitated. Key figures of Mannerism include Jacopo Pontormo, Rosso Fiorentino, Parmigianino, and later, El Greco. Parmigianino’s Madonna with the Long Neck is a prime example of the style, with its unnaturally elongated figures and spatial ambiguity.

Mannerism also reflected the cultural and religious turmoil of the time, including the Reformation and the sack of Rome in 1527. These events contributed to a sense of instability and uncertainty, which was mirrored in the art. Unlike the confident, orderly world of the High Renaissance, Mannerism often conveyed anxiety, tension, and complexity.

Although initially criticized for its departure from classical ideals, Mannerism has come to be appreciated for its innovation, emotional depth, and bold experimentation. It served as a bridge between the perfection of the Renaissance and the dramatic flair of the Baroque, leaving a lasting impact on the trajectory of Western art.

Finding Meaning in the Abstract: Pointers for Understanding Modern Art

Modern art can feel like a mystery—like you’re being let in on a joke but no one’s actually explaining the punchline. I used to walk through contemporary galleries feeling like I was missing something important. A canvas covered in one solid color or a sculpture made of tangled wires didn’t look like “art” in the traditional sense. But over time, I realized that understanding modern art isn’t about decoding a secret language—it’s about learning to see differently.

One of the biggest shifts for me came when I stopped asking, “What is this supposed to be?” and started asking, “What is this trying to make me feel?” Modern art often moves away from realistic representation. Instead of painting a tree, an artist might evoke the feeling of standing in a forest through texture, color, and shape. Once I gave myself permission to respond emotionally rather than analytically, things started clicking.

“What is this trying to make me feel?”

Another helpful pointer is to read the artist’s statement or title when available. It’s not cheating—it’s context. These often give you a glimpse into the artist’s mind and the world they were responding to. Modern art is deeply tied to the time and place it was created. A chaotic painting might reflect social unrest; a minimalist piece might be pushing back against visual overload.

Also, don't underestimate your own interpretation. The beauty of modern art is that it invites participation. There isn’t always one “correct” meaning. If a piece reminds you of something personal or stirs a memory, that response is valid—and probably just as valuable as the artist’s intention.

Finally, give it time. Let yourself sit with the discomfort of not knowing. Some pieces won’t resonate, and that’s okay. But others might stay with you longer than you expect, slowly unfolding their meaning.

Modern art challenged how I thought art “should” look, but it also taught me that art doesn’t have to look a certain way to be powerful. It just has to make you feel something—and once you approach it with curiosity instead of judgment, the whole experience becomes a lot more rewarding.

To Art: a Poem

O muse of art, thou vision born of perfect grace,
A lady fair, whose beauty none can name,
Thy gentle hands do carve in time a place
Where all that’s bright is born from thy pure flame.
With every stroke, thou paint'st the perfect dream,
Thy lips untouched, yet whispering soft and true,
Each curve and line a tale that dares to gleam
As though the very stars had seen thee through.

Thy eyes, a mirror of the heaven's light,
A depth so vast no mortal heart could hold,
Thy form, a vision born of endless night,
Where shadows breathe and secrets do unfold.
Thy skin, as soft as petals kissed by rain,
Thy spirit, woven deep in every hue,
Thy touch, a balm that heals all earthly pain,
A quiet force that stirs the soul anew.

Thy colors weave a love, both soft and bright,
Like evening's glow upon the setting sea;
Thy gaze a mirror of the starry night,
In thee, all passions find their sanctuary.
Thy hands, with grace, do mold a world divine,
Where dreams take shape and memory takes flight.

Thy voice, unspoken, fills the heart’s design,
And we, the watchers, yield to pure delight.

In thee, O Art, we see all beauty born—
As stars that glisten on the velvet sea,
As roses kissed by the first light of dawn,
As love itself, too deep for eyes to see.
Thy soul, transcendent, whispers like the breeze,
A muse eternal, floating in the night,
Thy art, a flame that kindles hearts with ease,
A beauty ever vivid, ever bright.

"What was it like going to art school?"

I was asked recently about my own experience at art school. Actually, I attended a Design school, and though art was a large part of the training, the education at Art Center College of Design was much more extensive than just art. Attending Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California, really was one of the most unforgettable chapters of my life. Out of all the memories I made during my time there, one experience stands out above the rest—the collaborative design project in my third term.

That project was part of a transdisciplinary course where students from different design backgrounds, like graphic design, industrial design, and interaction design, teamed up. Our goal was to come up with a product that would make urban life better. Working with such a talented and diverse group of people opened my eyes to new ways of thinking and solving problems. Each person brought something unique to the table, and that blend of creativity was electric.

“(this was) really was one of the most unforgettable chapters of my life…”

Our team landed on the idea of creating a modular public seating system that could adapt to different urban spaces. I focused on the visual branding and user interface, while my teammates handled product engineering and environmental design. We hit some roadblocks trying to balance style with function, but we worked through every challenge together, determined to make something both beautiful and practical.

What made the experience even more special was the feedback we got from our instructors and visiting professionals. Their honest critiques pushed us to keep improving and paying attention to every little detail. Art Center had this way of demanding the best from us, and it made us better designers.

The day we presented our final prototype at the end-of-term showcase was one I’ll never forget. Seeing our hard work come to life and hearing positive reactions from our peers and industry pros made it all worth it. It was a real reminder of how design can shape the world around us.

That project at Art Center didn’t just sharpen my design skills—it taught me the value of teamwork, resilience, and staying open to new ideas. It was a perfect example of what Art Center stands for: excellence, innovation, and pushing creative boundaries. Those lessons and memories will stay with me wherever my career takes me.

Why I Love the Rococo Period

The Rococo period has always fascinated me. There’s something about its elegance, soft colors, and playful charm that makes it feel almost dreamlike. Emerging in the early 18th century, Rococo was a reaction to the grandeur and seriousness of the Baroque era. Instead of dark, dramatic themes, Rococo artists embraced lightness, romance, and beauty. Their work feels like an escape into a world of luxury and fantasy, and that’s exactly why I love it.

One of my favorite things about Rococo art is its attention to detail. Artists like Jean-Honoré Fragonard and François Boucher created paintings filled with soft pastels, flowing fabrics, and delicate brushstrokes. Their scenes often depicted aristocrats lounging in lush gardens, playful love affairs, or even mythological figures surrounded by golden light. Looking at their work feels like stepping into a fairy tale—one filled with music, laughter, and endless beauty.

One of my favorite things about Rococo art is its attention to detail.

But Rococo wasn’t just about paintings. It influenced everything from architecture to fashion. Ornate furniture, gilded mirrors, and intricate ceiling frescoes filled the homes of the wealthy, making everyday life feel like a work of art. Even today, you can see traces of Rococo style in modern design, proving that its charm never truly faded.

For me, Rococo is more than just an art movement—it’s a reminder that art can be lighthearted, joyful, and enchanting. In a world that often feels heavy, sometimes we all need a little Rococo magic to brighten our day.

Whirls of gold and light,

Soft pastels and joy take flight,

Elegance in bloom.