What can I learn from Pablo Picasso in 2025?

Growing up, I think it’s safe to say I never cared for the work of Pablo Picasso. It was art that made me roll my eyes and laugh. But as I got older and took art history classes in college, I learned more about this guy and I began to appreciate him more and more. Thinking about Pablo Picasso, I’m reminded of the power of reinvention—the courage to break all the rules and start fresh, again and again. Picasso’s career was a constant journey of exploration, from his Blue Period to Cubism and beyond. For an artist in 2025, that restless creativity is incredibly inspiring.

Picasso didn’t fear change. He embraced it. He challenged conventions and redefined what art could be. That teaches me that it’s okay—even necessary—to let go of old ideas about what “good” art looks like, and to follow where curiosity leads.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

He also reminds me that playfulness and seriousness can coexist. Picasso’s work is sometimes joyful, sometimes intense, but it’s always honest. He invites me to be brave with my own work—to experiment, to fail, and to find joy in the process.

Picasso was incredibly prolific—creating tens of thousands of works over his lifetime. But what strikes me most is his ability to reinvent himself without losing the core of who he was. That balance between evolution and authenticity feels essential, especially in a world that pushes for constant self-branding.

He also worked across mediums—painting, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking—reminding me that creativity isn’t confined to one form. Exploring different ways to express ideas can unlock new perspectives.

Picasso’s legacy teaches me that art is a lifelong adventure, full of surprises and reinvention. In 2025, as I face my own creative challenges, his example encourages me to stay curious, be bold, and never stop playing with possibilities. I still remember rolling my eyes and laughing at his work when I was a kid. I’m glad I grew up.

What can I learn from Georgia O'Keeffe in 2025?

As I think about Georgia O’Keeffe, I’m struck by her fearless individuality and her deep connection to place. In a world that often asks artists to conform or fit into trends, O’Keeffe’s life reminds me how powerful it is to follow your own vision—and to find inspiration in the landscape around you.

O’Keeffe painted flowers, deserts, and bones (interesting array of subject matter, right?) with an intensity that feels both intimate and monumental. She didn’t just capture what she saw; she transformed it. Her work encourages me to look closer, to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, and to trust that my unique perspective matters.

“I decided that if I could paint that flower in a huge scale, you could not ignore its beauty.”

She also embraced solitude, often retreating to New Mexico’s vast desert landscapes where she could focus deeply on her art and her own rhythm. That reminds me that sometimes stepping away from the noise is essential—not just for productivity, but for clarity and soul.

O’Keeffe faced criticism and misunderstanding, especially as a woman artist in a male-dominated field. Yet she remained unapologetically herself, breaking expectations and carving out space on her own terms. Her courage encourages me to hold firm to my voice, even when it feels easier to blend in.

Her attention to detail was both precise and bold. She magnified natural forms to reveal something new, challenging viewers to see beauty and power in places they might overlook. That inspires me to push boundaries—both in what I paint and how I see the world.

Georgia O’Keeffe’s life is a reminder that art is not just about technique, but about honesty, courage, and connection—to ourselves, to nature, and to the stories we choose to tell. In 2025, her example feels like a quiet call to trust my own vision and let it grow.

What can I learn from Caravaggio in 2025?

When I think about Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (Caravaggio for short), I’m always struck by how he uses light and shadow. Those sharp contrasts pull me in every time, as if his scenes are frozen between night and day, or between stillness and chaos. But what really stays with me isn’t just how he painted—it’s how unapologetically honest he was, how boldly he approached both his art and his life. That kind of raw courage feels especially meaningful to me as an artist trying to make sense of the world in 2025.

Caravaggio wasn’t interested in prettiness or idealization. He painted saints with bruises and dirt on their feet, ordinary people caught in divine moments. That bold realism—his willingness to show the world as gritty and flawed—challenges me. In a time when social media often pushes perfection, Caravaggio’s work reminds me to embrace imperfection, messiness, and truth.

“I do not think there is anything more powerful than truth seen through the human experience.”

His life was turbulent—marked by passion, violence, and exile. Yet, despite personal chaos, his paintings convey a sense of immediacy and emotional intensity. That tension between darkness and light feels like a metaphor for creativity itself: it’s not always comfortable, but it’s real.

Caravaggio also broke with tradition, refusing to paint in the classical, idealized styles favored by his patrons. Instead, he brought the divine down to earth, using ordinary people as his models. I think his work challenges us to question the accepted norms and to find my own voice, even if it means breaking rules. Sometimes, that’s okay.

And then there’s his mastery of chiaroscuro—the way light slices through darkness. It reminds me that contrast isn’t just visual; it’s emotional, psychological. Sometimes art has to confront darkness before it finds light. That’s a lesson I carry when I’m facing creative blocks or doubts.

Caravaggio’s art feels alive because it’s honest, unflinching, and human. In 2025, when the pressure to “perform” can feel overwhelming, his example encourages me to create work that’s true to the messy, beautiful complexity of life.

What can I learn from Thomas Gainsborough in 2025?

When I think of Thomas Gainsborough, I think of elegance—those sweeping portraits with silk gowns and powdered wigs. Very fancy. But when I look a little deeper, I see an artist who spent his career walking the line between what the world expected and what his heart truly wanted. And as an artist in 2025, that tension feels surprisingly familiar.

Turns out, Gainsborough made his name painting society portraits—wealthy patrons in formal poses, dressed to impress. He was brilliant at it. But he didn’t love it. What he DID love—what he painted when no one was watching—was landscape. Trees, fields, quiet skies, humble country life. That, he once wrote, was where he found his "delight."

“I'm sick of portraits, and wish very much to take my viol-da-gam and walk off to some sweet village where I can paint landscapes.”

That line always makes me smile. It reminds me that many of us, even successful artists, carry a private longing to do the work that truly feeds us. Sometimes, we compromise to survive. And that’s okay. But Gainsborough shows me the importance of keeping space—somewhere—for what we genuinely love.

Even in his portraits, you can feel his sensitivity. There’s softness in the way he handled fabric, a gentle atmosphere in the backgrounds, a tenderness in how he saw his subjects. He wasn’t just capturing appearances—he was honoring presence. That’s something I try to hold on to in my own work: finding quiet ways to bring emotion and care into what I create.

He also worked with speed and intuition. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Gainsborough often painted with a kind of looseness—thin layers, visible brushwork, textures that feel almost modern. He reminds me that not everything has to be perfect or polished to feel alive.

In a world that still values polish, speed, and marketable identity, Gainsborough’s life whispers a different truth: make room for what brings you joy. Find a way to paint your landscapes, even if it’s in between commissions. Art is not just a performance—it’s a place to return to yourself. That’s what I love about it.

What can I learn from Michelangelo in 2025?

As a full-time working artist in 2025, I sometimes get caught between wanting to create freely and feeling pressure to “master” everything—to be fast, visible, accomplished. Honestly, that tension is what stops a lot of really creative people form going forward with their craft. Then I read about Michelangelo and am shamed (in a really good way though). His name feels almost too large to touch, like he belongs in textbooks and marble halls. But when I look closer, I see an artist who wrestled deeply with his work, with himself, and with what it meant to make something meaningful in a complicated world. I really like that.

Michelangelo wasn’t just gifted—he was obsessed. He worked with intensity, solitude, and relentless drive. He carved, painted, sketched, designed buildings. He labored over details that most people would never see. He pushed himself physically and emotionally to the point of exhaustion. And yet, he kept creating—not for fame, but because he had to.

“If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all.”

That quote says everything. In a culture that often glorifies talent and instant success, Michelangelo reminds me that greatness comes from discipline, sacrifice, and focus over time. It’s okay to work slowly. It’s okay to struggle. The work should challenge us.

What also strikes me is how spiritually driven he was. Whether or not you share his beliefs, there’s something powerful in the way he treated art as a calling—a bridge between the earthly and the divine. In a time where so much feels transactional, he reminds me that art can still be sacred.

He also lived with contradiction. He was intensely private but created public masterpieces. He loved the male form but lived in a culture that condemned it. He was a sculptor who painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling because he had to, not because he wanted to. There’s something reassuring about that complexity. It tells me that we don’t have to be perfectly aligned to create powerful work—we just have to keep showing up.

Michelangelo’s life teaches me that art isn’t just about beauty. It’s about devotion, wrestling, patience, and faith—in the process, in the craft, and in the possibility of saying something that lasts.

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 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 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.

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.

Neoclassicism: Bringing Ancient Style Back to Life

One of my personal favorite periods of art is Neoclassicism. That is an art movement that took off in the mid-18th century and lasted into the early 19th century, was all about going back to basics—specifically, the basics of ancient Greece and Rome. After the crazy-fancy, over-the-top Rococo style, artists and architects decided it was time for a change. They wanted to embrace simplicity, balance, and ideas rooted in reason, which fit perfectly with the Enlightenment vibe of the time. I’ve always found it very relaxing art to spend time with.

A big reason Neoclassicism became so popular was the rediscovery of ancient ruins like those in Pompeii and Herculaneum. These archaeological digs got people excited about the past, and suddenly everyone wanted to borrow the clean lines and timeless elegance of classical art. Wealthy Europeans traveling on the Grand Tour also brought back ideas and inspiration, which helped spread this new (or really old) style.

In painting, Neoclassicism was all about telling meaningful stories, often based on history or mythology. Artists like Jacques-Louis David led the charge with works like The Oath of the Horatii and The Death of Socrates. These paintings weren’t just pretty—they were packed with messages about duty, sacrifice, and patriotism. The style itself was sharp and clean, with strong lines, dramatic lighting, and carefully balanced designs.

“Neoclassicism was all about telling meaningful stories”

Architecture during this time also looked to the past. Buildings like the Panthéon in Paris and the U.S. Capitol were inspired by ancient temples, with their grand columns, domes, and symmetrical layouts. They weren’t just impressive—they symbolized ideas like democracy and reason.

Even sculpture got in on the action, with artists like Antonio Canova creating marble masterpieces that looked like they could’ve been made in ancient Rome. His work, like Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss, showed emotion and elegance while sticking to the classical style.

Neoclassicism wasn’t just a style—it was a way of connecting to the past while creating something timeless. Its influence is still around today, proving that sometimes, old ideas never go out of style.

Marble whispers grace,

Echoes of ancient glory—

Timeless forms reborn.