What can I learn from Makoto Fujimura in 2025?

The last several posts have related to my thoughts on artists of the past. As I draw this series to a close, I thought that it would be fun to finish up with my favorite contemporary artist, Makoto Fujimura. Mako Fujimura is a Japanese American artist known for his luminous abstract paintings that combine contemporary vision with ancient techniques and more than any other living artist, has influenced my own work. Born in Boston and raised partly in Japan, he studied at Tokyo University of the Arts, becoming one of the first non-Japanese nationals to train in nihonga—a traditional art form that uses hand-ground minerals, precious metals, and natural pigments on paper and silk. Beyond painting, he’s also a writer, speaker, and founder of the International Arts Movement, which encourages artists to see beauty as an act of cultural care.

Learning about Fujimura’s journey feels both comforting and challenging to me as an artist. What first draws me in is the way he treats tradition. Instead of seeing nihonga as something rigid or outdated, he uses it as a living language. His paintings shimmer with layers of crushed malachite, gold, and silver, creating something deeply rooted yet unmistakably new. This really struck a chord with me many years ago when I first saw his work and, learning from his example, the take away for me was that I don’t have to break from the past to be original. I can let my own history, influences, and cultural background nourish what I create.

Another lesson I find moving is how Fujimura sees art as a response to the world’s wounds. After the events of 9/11, he didn’t turn away from pain; he gathered other artists to explore how beauty can speak into tragedy. That challenges me to think about my own work: could it be more than self-expression? Could it be a gentle invitation to hope, or even a quiet act of healing?

I’m also struck by Fujimura’s embrace of slowness. His process—patiently building up translucent layers over months or years—is almost a meditation. In a world that pushes me to rush and produce, his art feels like a reminder that depth, meaning, and beauty often grow slowly.

Finally, what resonates most is how naturally Fujimura’s faith flows into his art. He doesn’t separate what he believes from what he makes; his paintings feel like offerings—humble gestures of gratitude and wonder. It makes me reflect on what grounds my own creativity and invites me to approach my work as something sacred, rather than just something to finish and show.

Through Fujimura’s life, I’m learning to slow down, honor tradition, create as an act of love, and let something deeper guide my art. His example makes me hopeful—not only for what I might make, but for the kind of artist, and person, I might become.

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 Raphael in 2025?

Mostly, when I think of Raphael, I picture balance, harmony, and grace—those serene faces and perfectly composed scenes that seem to glow with a quiet confidence. But what really speaks to me about Raphael’s life and work is his dedication to clarity and connection, which, as an artist in 2025, I find deeply moving.

Raphael was known for his ability to bring people together—whether through his art, his friendships, or his collaborations. He worked alongside Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, not as a rival, but as someone who sought to learn and create in dialogue with others. That spirit of openness speaks volumes regarding how vital community is, even in a field that often feels solitary.

“Art is not just a thing to be made; it’s a way to bring people closer.”

His paintings are often described as embodying ideal beauty, but they are also deeply human—full of warmth, gentle emotion, and understanding. In a world that can sometimes feel fragmented and rushed, Raphael’s calm, thoughtful approach invites me to slow down and listen—to myself, and to others.

Raphael was a master of composition and clarity. He didn’t overwhelm his viewers but guided them gently through the story he was telling. That story reminds me that art doesn’t need to be complicated to be powerful. Sometimes simplicity, balance, and elegance carry the strongest message.

He also adapted and evolved throughout his career, absorbing influences from others while refining his own voice. That flexibility feels encouraging. The big take away is that growth is a process, and that it’s okay to learn from those around us without losing sight of what makes our own work unique.

Raphael’s life encourages us to see art as a bridge—not just between colors and shapes, but between hearts and minds. In 2025, I try to remember that creating is as much about connection as it is about expression.

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 Leonardo da Vinci in 2025?

As I try to navigate life as an artist in 2025, I sometimes find myself (usually in the midst of boredom) trying to incorporate different creative interests—sketching, writing, studying, problem-solving. Sometimes, it feels crazy because there’s no way anyone would have the emotional, spiritual (or physical) stamina to pursue all those areas of creativity. But…then I think of Leonardo da Vinci. This guy painted The Last Supper and the Mona Lisa, yes—but he was also an engineer, a botanist, an anatomist, an inventor, a dreamer. And somehow, all of it was part of his art.

Da Vinci reminds me that curiosity is not a distraction—it’s fuel. He didn’t believe in separating disciplines. He sketched flying machines alongside studies of lilies. He dissected cadavers not out of morbidity but to understand how the body moved, so he could paint it more truthfully. I mean, that’s dedication. He kept notebooks full of questions, diagrams, and observations. That kind of restless, generous mind feels incredibly modern to me.

“Learning never exhausts the mind. It ignites it.”

We live in a time that often pressures us to specialize, to brand ourselves. But Leonardo teaches me that it’s okay—even essential—to stay wide open. That following your curiosity wherever it leads can actually deepen your work, not dilute it.

If I’m paying attention to his life, I also learn that “unfinished” doesn’t mean “unworthy”. Many of his paintings were left incomplete. He was slow, meticulous, and sometimes paralyzed by his own perfectionism. That hits home. I’ve learned that sometimes the fear of not getting it “right” can block the very thing I’m trying to express. But Leonardo’s notebooks, his questions, his explorations—they’re just as valuable as the paintings he completed. Maybe more.

And…there’s this: Leonardo never stopped observing and I love that. He watched water swirl. He tracked how birds flew. He studied the way lips curved when someone smiled. That kind of attention—to both the world and the self—is a practice I try to carry into my own work.

Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t just a genius. He was a student of everything, forever in awe of the world. And in 2025, in a world of fast takes and shallow scrolls, his life reminds all of us that it’s okay (even essential) to slow down, look closely, ask questions, and let wonder lead the way.

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 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.