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.

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.