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.

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.

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.

The Enchantment of Art Nouveau

Art Nouveau is exciting in my opinion. I love this period of art. It is art that is whimsical , fluid and themed after nature itself. Art Nouveau speaks like a whisper from nature itself, a dance of lines and light that turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. Born in the late 19th century, it bloomed in defiance of the cold, mechanical world, weaving beauty back into life’s fabric. It was more than an art movement—it was a celebration, a rebellion against the rigid and the mundane, a return to nature’s embrace.

Its fluidity is mesmerizing — the way its curves seem to breathe and flow like vines reaching toward the sun. Alphonse Mucha’s women, draped in golden light and cascading hair, feel like ethereal muses of a forgotten dream. Gustav Klimt’s shimmering canvases, rich with gold and longing, seem to pulse with hidden magic. Even Gaudí’s buildings twist and turn like ancient trees, growing from the earth with wild, organic grace.

“Its fluidity is mesmerizing…”

But what I love most is how Art Nouveau makes art part of life. No longer confined to fancy gilded frames, it spills into the world—etched into wrought iron balconies, swirling through stained glass windows, carved into the very wood beneath our hands. It reminds me that beauty is not something distant or rare; it can be found in the smallest details, in a curve, in a pattern, in the way light filters through glass.

Art Nouveau is a reminder to slow down, to look closer, to breathe in the poetry of the world. It is nature’s art, forever blooming, forever alive.

Graceful curves unfold,

Nature’s whispers in the lines,

Beauty’s breath entwined.

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.