 We live in an era that loudly champions individuality. From childhood, we are taught to be ourselves, to follow our dreams, to break the mold. Social media feeds overflow with mantras of freedom, self-expression, and rebellion against conformity. And yet, for all our celebration of autonomy, we consistently and even fervently elect leaders. We seek them out in politics, in business, in social causes, even in spiritual life. Why do we do this? Why, in a world that tells us to be free and think for ourselves, do we keep asking someone else to show us the way?
This contradiction lies at the heart of human society. We speak the language of independence, but we organize ourselves around figures of authority. We claim to want freedom, but we also crave direction. Is this merely human nature? Or is it, as Voltaire subtly hinted in Candide, a matter of failing to "cultivate our own garden"? Voltaire’s advice—"il faut cultiver notre jardin"—is both literal and metaphorical. He advocates for personal responsibility, for tending to our own corner of the world. It’s a call to focus on what we can control, to stop meddling in grand philosophical debates or futile wars and instead invest our energy into what really matters: daily acts of integrity and care. Yet modern life tempts us with the opposite. We wade into every conversation, every crisis, every opinion war—regardless of how well we understand it—armed with conviction. Our desire to be in the driver’s seat is often more about control than responsibility. We want to feel in charge, but we hesitate to accept the consequences of true leadership, especially in our own lives. Herein lies the dichotomy: we know what is right. We know we should be kind, honest, courageous. We know laws are meant to protect the weak and organize the strong. We know that our choices shape the world we live in. But we don’t always act accordingly. So, we outsource responsibility. We elect someone to "remind" us to respect the law. We wait for others to lead us into the future. We want a captain, but we resist steering the ship when the waters get rough. This isn’t necessarily hypocrisy. It’s fear—or perhaps, even more often, laziness. The fear of being wrong. The fear of standing alone. The fear of failing. Leading oneself, after all, is hard. It requires constant discipline, clarity, and moral courage. It’s much easier to follow a set of rules, to blame someone else when things go wrong, or to criticize decisions made by others without ever having to make one ourselves. There’s also a psychological comfort in leadership. Leaders give form to chaos. They promise direction in uncertain times. We project our hopes and frustrations onto them, expecting them to fix what we cannot, or will not, fix ourselves. It’s a kind of magical thinking—we imagine that by placing the right person in power, the world will sort itself out. But it never does. Not entirely. Because no leader can replace the moral responsibility of the individual. No law can substitute for personal ethics. No external system can resolve the internal struggle between what we know is right and what we actually do. This tension—between knowledge and action, between personal autonomy and collective leadership—runs deep in the human condition. It’s not a modern dilemma. Ancient texts wrestled with it, too. Plato envisioned philosopher-kings, reluctant leaders compelled to rule because of their wisdom, not ambition. The Bible, in its story of the Israelites demanding a king, explores the consequences of trading freedom for authority. Across time, cultures have both revered and mistrusted leaders, because they reflect our own contradictions. So, why do we need leaders? Perhaps the honest answer is: we don’t always need them, but we want them. We want them when we are overwhelmed. We want them when we are uncertain. We want them to carry the burden of responsibility we are not yet ready to bear. And maybe that’s not entirely a failing—it can be a pragmatic arrangement. In a complex society, leaders serve a function. They coordinate, represent, organize. They make decisions when consensus is impossible. But the danger comes when we stop at delegation and abandon our own role entirely. Because at the end of the day, each of us is still responsible for our own garden. Leadership starts at home. In how we treat others. In the honesty of our daily actions. In the courage to admit when we’re wrong and to do better. In the willingness to engage not just with our opinions, but with the responsibilities those opinions imply. The world doesn’t need more voices yelling from the backseat. It needs more hands on the wheel. More people willing to act in accordance with what they know is right. More individuals who don’t just speak about freedom, but live it—through self-mastery, humility, and compassion. The paradox may never fully resolve. We are human. We seek both independence and connection. We fear and revere power. But perhaps we can shift the focus—from asking why we need leaders, to asking how we can lead ourselves better. Not to dominate others, but to live more honestly, more freely, and more responsibly. So next time we look to elect a leader, maybe the real question is: what kind of follower will we be? Passive or participatory? Blaming or accountable? Waiting or cultivating? Voltaire’s garden still waits. The soil is ours to tend. On a warm Friday evening at Bloom Gallery, something quietly powerful unfolded. Instead of the usual gentle shuffle of shoes on concrete, murmured comments, and the thoughtful stares of viewers absorbing the works on display, the gallery pulsed with a different kind of energy—one of curiosity, play, and creative engagement. We had prepared a simple invitation: participate. Not merely in thought or emotion, but in action. We provided a modest offering: a table set with materials—pens, crayons, palettes of color—and a stack of blank 10x10 cm wooden panels. The premise was straightforward: choose a panel, paint whatever you like, and hang it on the wall alongside others. It was artmaking distilled to its most democratic form—free, open, and inclusive. By the end of the evening, over 100 miniature works of art had appeared on the gallery wall, a growing mosaic of expression, color, and individuality. What occurred was more than just an interactive event. It was a subtle, collective transformation. Visitors were no longer passive observers confined to the role of spectator. They became artists, participants in the living language of art. In this moment, the gallery space—traditionally curated and contemplative—became a site of shared authorship and joy. This experience speaks to something essential about our relationship with art: that the act of creating is, in itself, a form of savoring. The Aesthetic Shift: From Passive to Active Galleries often function as sanctuaries of reverence. The lighting is precise, the silence meaningful, the gaze contemplative. But while this fosters a space for reflection and interpretation, it can also quietly position the visitor as an outsider—someone invited to look, but not to touch; to feel, but not to respond. By offering a paintbrush and a wooden square, we disrupted this expectation. We invited the viewer into the studio, metaphorically and literally. The barrier between the artist and the audience dissolved. And in that dissolution, a different kind of appreciation emerged—an embodied appreciation. This shift from passive to active aligns with a broader truth: to truly understand art, one must sometimes get their hands dirty. The act of creating—even a small, spontaneous image—teaches things that viewing alone cannot. It teaches respect for the process, appreciation for the vulnerability of expression, and wonder at the variety of visual voices that can emerge from even the humblest tools. Savoring Art as an Act of Creation We often think of “savoring” in the realm of food, music, or natural beauty—slow, mindful enjoyment that allows us to dwell in the richness of experience. When we savor art as viewers, we take time to explore its visual language, interpret its meaning, and feel its emotional resonance. But what if savoring art could also mean participating in its creation? The joy evident on the faces of our participants last Friday suggests exactly this. Dipping a brush into paint, watching colors mix, responding to texture and impulse—these are all acts of attentiveness. They demand presence. In this state, people weren’t just producing images; they were engaging in a form of savoring. Their awareness shifted inward, to the tactile moment of making, and outward, toward the shared creative energy around them. Savoring through participation also generates empathy. Once someone has tried to create—even for just 10 minutes—they look differently at professional art. They understand, even if only intuitively, the choices, risks, and rhythms behind the finished work. The gallery becomes not just a site of display, but a site of dialogue. Art as Commons, Not Commodity In today’s hyper-curated art world, where art is often monetized, mystified, or placed on inaccessible pedestals, creating a space where anyone can make and display their work—even temporarily—is radical. It reclaims art as a communal, human act. It reminds us that art is not reserved for the trained, the talented, or the elite; it is a language we all speak, even if our dialects differ. There was a quiet dignity in the process: a parent painting beside their child, a couple collaborating on a shared piece, someone painting with obvious skill and someone else laughing at their “mess,” only to find unexpected beauty in it. Each panel told a different story, but the collective result was more than a patchwork. It was a portrait of a community engaging with its creative potential. In this act, we witnessed how art can function as a common, something collectively built, enjoyed, and enriched by shared participation. It’s not about mastery. It’s about meaning. And meaning, after all, is more often co-created than imposed. The Gallery as Living Space By allowing visitors to contribute directly to the exhibition, we redefined the gallery—not as a mausoleum of finished objects, but as a living, breathing space of exchange. Each panel added to the wall was a heartbeat, a voice in the chorus, a brick in the ongoing construction of what it means to make art together. This temporary installation—spontaneous, colorful, unpretentious—was a reminder that the gallery doesn’t always need to hold only polished or pre-approved work. Sometimes, it should be a mirror, reflecting the creative spirit of those who walk through its doors. It should be a stage for participation, not just performance. And importantly, no one asked, “Is it good enough?” That question, often so deeply rooted in our self-consciousness, fell away in the face of shared joy. Instead, people asked, “Can I add another one?” or “Where do I hang mine?” That eagerness was not about validation, but about connection—about joining something larger than oneself. Toward a More Participatory Future Friday’s event was a beautiful experiment, but perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps it’s a model, a small-scale glimpse of how we might reimagine the role of the public in art spaces. At a time when people crave genuine connection, creativity offers a universal path. Participation doesn’t dilute the value of art; it expands it. It widens the circle. It transforms the gallery from a container of objects into a container of experiences. As curators, artists, and cultural organizers, our task may not be just to present art—but to invite others into its making. To say: “You, too, have a voice here.” To blur the line between audience and artist in favor of something more fluid, more human, and more alive. Friday night showed us what happens when we extend that invitation. Over 100 little paintings now hang side-by-side, bright squares of expression suspended on our gallery wall. Each one is unique, imperfect, and full of life. Together, they form something greater than the sum of their parts: a collective memory, a joyful experiment, and a reminder that the true power of art is not just in being seen, but in being shared.  Yesterday, as the lights went out across Valencia and much of Spain, a different kind of illumination emerged—one not powered by electricity or the internet, but by humanity, solidarity, and simple kindness. In a moment where modern infrastructure faltered, where our digital lifelines disappeared and the comforts of convenience paused, the people of Valencia showed that their true power lies not in machines, but in the goodness of their hearts.
The blackout, following so closely on the heels of the DANA floods that had already tested the resilience of the region, could have felt like another blow. Instead, it became something unexpected: a demonstration of grace under pressure, of calm where there could have been chaos, and of community in a world that often feels disconnected. The Silence of the Machines As the power cut swept across the city, the first thing most of us noticed was the silence. No hum of refrigerators, no buzz from neon lights, no traffic signals clicking through their cycle. Phones lost signal. Wi-Fi dropped. The tap of keyboards fell away. For a few moments, Valencia fell still. But in that silence, something else began to rise—a murmur of voices, real voices, not ones filtered through screens or speakers. People stepped out of their homes. Neighbors talked, some for the first time in months. Drivers, usually isolated in their vehicles, rolled down their windows and coordinated passage at dead intersections with hand gestures and smiles. Cafeteria owners stepped out into the streets and shrugged when customers tried to pay: “Don’t worry about it—next time.” There was no panic. There was presence. We looked at each other instead of down at our phones. And in doing so, we remembered that we are more than consumers, commuters, or workers—we are part of something larger, something rooted in shared experience. Radio Renaissance In the absence of internet and television, radios became sacred again. People gathered around car stereos and battery-powered sets like something out of another era. It was strangely beautiful—strangers leaning in together, listening to updates, piecing together what had happened and what might come next. These spontaneous gatherings transformed sidewalks and plazas into temporary living rooms. The city, momentarily unmoored from the digital world, began to beat with a slower, more human rhythm. These moments reminded us that while technology connects us, it also distracts us. The blackout peeled away the distractions. What remained was essential: our voices, our presence, our willingness to be with each other, even in confusion or uncertainty. The Valencian Spirit There’s something deeply rooted in the Valencian character that shone through yesterday. It's hard to define exactly, but if you live here long enough, you feel it. It’s a mix of generosity, resilience, humor, and practicality. Maybe it’s in the sun, or in the sea breeze, or in the way people here still take the time for a café con leche and a conversation. But when the city went dark, that spirit lit up like never before. At street corners where traffic lights had gone black, people took turns with patience and grace. No honking, no shouting. Just mutual understanding. In the markets, vendors continued serving regulars, some even giving away fresh bread and fruit rather than letting it spoil. No one kept score. It felt natural, even obvious: Help each other out. That’s what we do. This is not to romanticize hardship. The flood and the blackout were real challenges, with real consequences. But moments like these show that hardship doesn’t have to isolate us. In fact, it can be a force that binds us more tightly. The Economy of Trust One of the most striking aspects of yesterday was the spontaneous emergence of what I’ll call an “economy of trust.” With card readers down and ATMs offline, money as we know it temporarily lost meaning. But trust stepped in to fill the gap. Business owners allowed customers to take their coffee or groceries and come back another time to settle up. No receipts. No systems. Just a nod, a handshake, and an understanding. This kind of trust is fragile in many places, but in Valencia, it held strong. It wasn’t taken advantage of; it was respected. People didn’t exploit the moment—they honored it. That’s a kind of social wealth we don’t talk about often enough. And it’s worth more than all the technology we temporarily lost. Human First, Always What does it say about us that it takes a blackout for us to look each other in the eyes? Why is it in moments of breakdown that we remember to be human? Perhaps because in those moments, the systems we usually rely on—economic, digital, logistical—fade into the background, and we’re left with something more immediate. Ourselves. Each other. In times of uncertainty, we see who we really are. And yesterday, the people of Valencia showed that we are, above all else, decent. We’re willing to listen, to give, to care. When the structure around us collapses, the community holds. A Lesson Worth Remembering As the lights flicker back on and the Wi-Fi reconnects, there’s a risk that we’ll forget what we felt yesterday. That we’ll slip back into digital detachment and transactional thinking. But we don’t have to. We can carry forward the lessons from the blackout. We can keep greeting our neighbors, keep offering help without expecting anything in return, keep trusting that most people, when given the chance, will choose kindness. We can remember that behind every screen name, every email, every blip of data, is a person—just like us, just trying to make it through the day with a little dignity and a little joy. The blackout may be over, but the light it revealed—the light inside us—is still burning.  Copyright: The Guardian 2021 In our hyper-connected digital age, where opinions travel faster than facts, one disturbing intellectual trend keeps growing: the urge to retroactively judge history through the lens of modern morality. We are told to tear down statues, rename streets, cancel historical figures, and rewrite textbooks—to correct the past, as if we were gods looking down on it with superior vision. But judging from the past based on today’s values is as absurd as blaming a newborn for a traffic accident they’ll have in 40 years. It misunderstands the nature of time, civilization, and what it means to be human. Civilizations Grow Like People Civilizations, like people, are born in darkness. They crawl, stumble, and sometimes run before they walk. They learn, fight, fail, love, and rise again. To expect moral maturity from ancient societies is like expecting a child to recite a philosophical treatise on justice before they’ve even learned to speak. Yes, there was slavery. Yes, there was war, empire, disease, despotism. And yes, there was discovery, invention, liberation, poetry, and love. These opposites do not cancel each other, they coexist, forming the rich, complex reality of human history. To whitewash history is not to heal it, it is to amputate it. The Dangerous Fantasy of the Time Machine Let’s play the revisionist game for a moment. Say we invent a time machine. We go back and stop every tyrant, prevent every war, cure every plague, abolish every injustice. Nice idea. But then ask: where would we be now? Without tyranny, would we have discovered liberty? Without empire, would global civilizations have connected? Without oppression, would we have written constitutions? Without war, would we have built peace? The cause-and-effect principle, the foundational law of existence, tells us something uncomfortable: progress often grows out of pain. Slavery, Democracy, and the Paradox of Progress Slavery is abhorrent—but its existence shaped the world we live in. The brutal, shameful system gave birth to abolitionism, civil rights movements, and a deeper understanding of human dignity. Democracy did not emerge in a vacuum. It emerged because people lived under kings, emperors, and theocratic rule, and eventually said enough. The abuses of the past gave meaning to the freedoms of the present. We love democracy but forget that it is the child of despotism. The very ideas we now hold sacred were forged in the fires we wish had never been lit. The Illusion of a “Pure” History Some argue: “If Christopher Columbus had not discovered America, the indigenous peoples would have been spared.” Maybe. But then maybe there would be no Enlightenment, no global scientific exchange, no United Nations, no internet. Maybe we would still be living in fragmented, isolated societies, each fearing the other. The same goes for the Sykes–Picot Agreement or the Crusades or the Hundred Years’ War. These are not isolated evils. They are links in a long, painful, but necessary chain. To break one link is to unravel the whole. We are not passengers watching history from a distance—we are its inheritors. And our modern privileges rest on ancient shoulders. Cancel Culture vs. Historical Complexity Canceling historical figures doesn’t make us wiser. It makes us shallow. Thomas Jefferson owned slaves—and wrote the Declaration of Independence. Churchill held colonialist views—and defeated fascism. The same duality lives in us. If perfection is the standard, then none of us will survive the judgment of the future. Instead of rewriting history, let’s read it more carefully. Let’s teach the contradictions, not hide them. Let’s learn how flawed people created extraordinary things—not to excuse them, but to understand them. And to understand ourselves. History as a Mirror, Not a Weapon The past is not a crime scene. It’s a mirror. When we look into it, we don’t just see “them”—we see ourselves. Their mistakes, their ambitions, their fears, their triumphs… they are ours, too. To grow as a civilization, we need to stop throwing stones at the past and start asking better questions: What did they believe? Why did they act that way? What can we learn—not erase—from their journey? The maturity of a society is measured not by how well it judges its ancestors, but by how well it understands them. Conclusion: Grow Up, Not Backward There’s a deep immaturity in trying to correct history from the comfort of the present. It is childish to wish the world had been simple, pure, or perfect. It never was. And that’s what makes its achievements more beautiful—not less. We are here because countless generations struggled, suffered, built, and believed. They weren’t always right—but they kept moving forward. That is the only standard that matters. Let’s stop pretending we’re above history. We are history. And if we don’t start respecting its complexity, we may lose the wisdom it offers. Final Thought As G.K. Chesterton once said: “The object of the progressive is to go on making mistakes. The object of the conservative is to prevent the mistakes from being corrected. But the wise man learns from the mistakes of both.” Let us be wise. Not perfect. Not pure. Just grown-up enough to see the full picture.  Last Friday, as golden light melted over the hills of Castellón, I found myself at the Hermita de San Sebastián, a small rural chapel now transformed into a site of contemporary questioning, a space between past and present, earth and spirit. The art opening, titled The Sacred and the Profane, seemed to ripple with more than just aesthetic intention. It asked something deeper: What is sacred? What is profane?
These questions hovered in the air like incense, carried in quiet conversations between paintings and visitors. They were not questions meant to be answered but lived. And perhaps that is the point—these binaries, these categorizations, are not fixed coordinates in the universe. They are stories we tell ourselves, born from our own evolving consciousness. At one point in history, the moon was a goddess. She was Inanna, Artemis, Selene—an eye in the heavens, watching over our world with divine intent. We danced under her glow, planned our harvests and rituals in tune with her cycles. The moon held mystery and power. But then, something shifted. Through the telescope's lens, she became a rock, a satellite of Earth, a celestial object subject to laws of physics rather than divine will. Did the moon change? Of course not. We changed. The sacred and the profane are not absolutes; they are mirrors of our inner world. What we deem sacred is what we choose to elevate, to protect, to give meaning. What we call profane is often what we reject, fear, or misunderstand. These are human constructs—reflections of culture, need, and evolution. Historically, civilizations have created gods in their own image. Anthropologist James Frazer wrote about how primitive societies personified natural forces—thunder, rain, sun, moon—granting them names, faces, and wills. The gods served not only as explanations for the inexplicable, but as guides for social behavior. Stories of gods taught us about courage, justice, love, jealousy, betrayal. The divine became our moral compass. And yet, the very gods who preached compassion were invoked to justify wars. The prophets who taught humility became symbols of dominance. How many have suffered, killed, or been killed in the name of the sacred? In every age, from the Crusades to present-day extremism, we’ve seen how religion—meant to connect us to the divine—can be twisted into a tool of division. The sacred, when institutionalized, can become dangerous. Perhaps what we are confronting now, as a modern species, is not the death of the sacred, but its transformation. We no longer need gods with thunderbolts or commandments carved in stone to teach us basic human virtues. We know, deep within, what kindness looks like. We know what suffering feels like. We are capable of empathy without divine punishment hanging over our heads. The sacred, today, may not dwell in the heavens, but in the simple acts of care between beings. At the same time, the profane has shifted too. There was a time when dancing, sexuality, even women's voices were considered profane—unclean, dangerous. Today, many of these are reclaimed as expressions of vitality, authenticity, and even healing. What was once suppressed is now embraced. We are reshaping the map of what is "holy" and what is "unholy." In the art exhibited at Hermita de San Sebastián, I saw this dialectic play out. One piece juxtaposed religious iconography with secular intimacy—flesh and faith entangled. Another offered a stark, almost brutal representation of abandonment, as if to say: Where is God in the silence? These works didn’t preach; they provoked. They offered no answers but insisted on the question: Is the sacred found in beauty, or in suffering? In ritual, or rebellion? To me, the sacred today lies in awareness. In presence. In the ability to stand before a mountain, a painting, or another human being and feel something stir in the soul. That stirring—that awe—is a kind of prayer, even if no god is named. The sacred is not confined to churches, temples, or mosques; it lives in the act of witnessing, of feeling deeply. It can be found in music, in poetry, in birth, in death. It is not a domain of the chosen, but of the open. And what of the profane? Perhaps it is simply what we have not yet understood. What we fear, we often vilify. But within the profane may also be liberation. The "profane" can shock us out of complacency, challenge norms, dismantle dogma. It is the artist’s realm—the edge, the underground, the grotesque. Without the profane, the sacred loses its contrast. Without shadow, no light. Standing under the arches of the Hermita, surrounded by artwork, candlelight, and murmurs of reflection, I realized that the building itself had undergone a metamorphosis. Once a house of Catholic worship, now a platform for contemporary exploration, it was no less sacred. Perhaps even more so, because it held within it multiple truths, multiple questions. It was no longer a monument to a single god, but a space for dialogue between gods, people, and ideas. So, what is sacred? It is what we hold with reverence. A child’s laughter. A moment of forgiveness. A work of art that makes us weep. And what is profane? Perhaps only that which we exile from the sacred until we are ready to look again and find the divine hidden in its folds. In the end, maybe the question is not what is sacred or what is profane, but what are we choosing to sanctify? What meanings are we weaving into the fabric of our lives? What gods are we still creating, and what old ones are we ready to release? And maybe the most sacred act of all is asking the question itself—with honesty, humility, and an open heart.  Art has always been an evolving conversation between the past, present, and future. Every artist, knowingly or unknowingly, stands on the shoulders of those who came before. This raises a fascinating question: can anything in art ever be truly original, or is all creativity just a remix of existing influences? The Myth of Pure Originality The idea of absolute originality—a creation that has no precedent, no influence, no roots—is seductive but elusive. Even the most radical artists, from Picasso to Duchamp, were shaped by their predecessors. The Renaissance artists built upon the discoveries of the classical world. The Impressionists reacted against academic painting. The Abstract Expressionists rebelled against realism. Art history is a long chain of innovation, each link connected to the one before it. Consider music: the 12-tone scale provides a limited yet infinite number of compositions. Yet, melodies and harmonies inevitably echo past works. Visual art follows a similar pattern-color combinations, forms, and concepts continuously reappear in new contexts. The Remix Culture: Borrowing, Transforming, Creating Modern creativity often embraces the idea of the remix. Artists, musicians, and writers borrow elements, transform them, and create something that feels fresh. This idea has been solidified in contemporary art, especially through movements like Dadaism, Pop Art, and Postmodernism, where appropriation plays a central role. Take Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans—were they original? He didn’t invent the can, the label, or even the artistic medium of screen printing. Yet, by recontextualizing a mundane object into the realm of fine art, he created something revolutionary. His work was both a commentary and an evolution of existing culture. The internet has accelerated this remix culture. Memes, digital art, and AI-generated content blur the line between originality and adaptation. In an era where anyone can sample, filter, and manipulate, the definition of creativity itself is shifting. Inspiration vs. Imitation The difference between drawing inspiration and outright copying is where originality is often debated. Artists influence each other, consciously or subconsciously. Picasso famously said, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” This isn’t about plagiarism but about deeply understanding, internalizing, and transforming influences into something uniquely personal. Great artists don’t simply mimic—they reinterpret. Van Gogh’s Starry Night was inspired by Japanese woodblock prints. Jean-Michel Basquiat’s graffiti-infused paintings referenced both African masks and European old masters. They weren’t simply replicating; they were merging influences into something unmistakably their own. The Fear of Unoriginality: A Creative BlockMany artists fear that they have nothing truly new to offer. The pressure to be groundbreaking can sometimes paralyze creativity. But if we accept that all art builds upon something, the goal shifts from seeking absolute originality to making meaningful contributions. Instead of asking, “Has this been done before?” a better question might be, “What can I add to this conversation?” Your unique perspective, experiences, and emotions make your work distinct—even if its foundation is familiar. Originality as a Process, Not a Destination Perhaps originality isn’t about creating something from nothing but about bringing a fresh perspective to existing ideas. Every work of art, no matter how innovative, is part of a larger dialogue. What makes an artist original isn’t the absence of influence, but how they weave together inspiration to express something only they can. So, is anything truly original? Maybe not in an absolute sense. But originality doesn’t need to be about invention—it’s about transformation. And in that sense, every artist has the potential to create something that feels new, meaningful, and uniquely theirs.  A millennial grandparent telling a bedtime story “The Lost Wi-Fi and the Quest for the Forgotten Code”.
Once upon a time, in a world where people still touched grass but also had hologram meetings, there was a little village named Scrollhaven. It was a peaceful town, filled with self-driving bicycles, talking refrigerators, and wise old smartphones that had seen the rise and fall of a thousand apps. But one fateful evening, something terrible happened—the Great Wi-Fi Tree stopped working! The villagers could no longer call their friends, summon their dinner with a voice command, or even find the perfect bedtime story. Panic spread like an outdated meme. Only one person could save the day: a young girl named Lina, who had been raised by her Millennial Grandmother, Nana Sky. Unlike the others, Nana Sky had lived in a time before endless Wi-Fi, when people had to memorize things and use maps made of paper! “My dear,” said Nana Sky, adjusting her oversized sweater, “the ancient stories speak of a Forgotten Code, hidden deep in the heart of the Offline Forest. It is said to restore all connections.” Lina was brave and a little skeptical. “So, like… I have to go outside?” she asked. “Yes, sweetie. But don’t worry—I’ll pack you some organic snacks and an emergency mixtape of 2010s classics.” So, Lina set off, armed with nothing but her Grandma’s Old Phone (a device of great mystery, with buttons instead of touchscreens!). She journeyed through the vast Offline Forest, where signals dared not enter, and encountered strange creatures:
She realized that while Wi-Fi was great, there was something magical about not always being connected. About walking outside, about telling stories face to face. And so, every night, instead of watching bedtime videos, Lina and Nana Sky sat together, telling stories. Stories that didn’t need screens. And from that day on, Scrollhaven was never truly disconnected again. The End. Here’s to the Women Who Create, Fight, and Post on Instagram in Their Underwear
Ah, March the month of women. A time to celebrate female empowerment, acknowledge the achievements of women across all walks of life, and remember the countless female artists who have been making waves in the art world, often from the comfort of their own kitchens, bathrooms, or wherever else we can find a moment of peace between running to a gallery opening and making sure our kids aren't painting on the walls. And yet, in this age of social media, there's one pesky question that lingers like a thick layer of paint no one bothered to wipe off their brushes: Why, oh why, is being a female artist still a challenge in 2025? Why is it that a woman’s art—regardless of how amazing it is—still has to fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously? Oh, and by the way, don’t forget the mandatory showing of skin to make that art marketable. Because, you know, marketing one's work as a woman isn't about the talent; it's about the "look." In this post, we’re going to dive into the absurd, often hilarious, and sometimes downright frustrating challenges women face in the art world. And who better to honor than the wonderful, incredibly talented Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin? Two artists who, despite the odds, still manage to create beautiful, boundary-pushing work, all while being subjected to the bizarre expectations placed on women in the art world. So, here we go, a sarcastic salute to all the female artists out there—especially Elizabeth and Sandy. The Struggle to Be Taken Seriously: “Cute,” “Sweet,” and Other Patronizing Labels If you're a female artist, congratulations! You’ve already won the first prize in the "You’re Probably Not Taken Seriously" category. I mean, of course, art made by women must be soft, emotional, and nice, right? It couldn’t possibly have any sharp edges, depth, or complexity because, heaven forbid, we let women think or create in ways that are anything other than 'delicate.' Take Elizabeth Hefty Khoury, for example. Her work delves into deep, emotional themes—yet somehow, if she were a man, critics would talk about her work with serious, pretentious buzzwords like "existential," "deconstructing boundaries," or "epic." Instead, when a woman creates similar work, suddenly it’s all "cute," "quirky," or worse, "pretty." Oh yes, because a piece of art that took hours, weeks, or even months to create must surely be classified by how "cute" it is. After all, if it’s made by a woman, it couldn’t possibly have the intellectual depth that "serious" art does. That’s not to say that “cute” can’t be a valid descriptor (we're not totally against pink things), but when your entire career as a female artist is constantly being boiled down to whether or not you make people “feel cozy,” then we have a problem. But hey, at least we're being called “cute,” right? That's progress...? The Never-Ending Battle for Visibility: You Must Have a ‘Gimmick’ Now, let’s talk about visibility in the art world. If you're a woman, forget about simply showcasing your art. You also need a gimmick. And by "gimmick," I mean something extra preferably something that makes people want to look at you rather than your work. Enter the social media age! Where followers are more important than galleries, where likes are more valuable than a genuine conversation about technique, and where women artists are often encouraged (sometimes subtly, sometimes not-so-subtly) to wear a little less to sell a little more. Sandy Goodwin, an amazing talent with work that resonates deeply, still has to dance around this bizarre pressure. Her paintings speak volumes, but for the algorithm to notice, she may have to pose next to her art in a crop top, or worse, share a story about how she’s been "feeling sexy and inspired." Can we talk about the irony here? We’re living in an age where women finally get the chance to express their artistic vision to a massive audience, but it’s not enough. Oh no. To truly break through, you need to become a brand. And that brand? Better be willing to give the world a full view of your personal life—and, preferably, your cleavage. The cruelest part? It’s not even about what you create anymore, it’s about what you sell of yourself. Because art? Well, that's secondary to the “look” of the artist. The Art Market's Favorite Game: Show Some Skin Let’s be real for a second. To sell art as a woman, sometimes it seems like you have to put on a little bit of skin. I'm talking about the “Hey, why don't you just pose in front of your painting with your legs crossed and a wink?” pressure. Which, let’s be honest, is exactly what everyone expects. When was the last time a male artist had to take off his shirt to prove his art was valuable? Yeah, we thought so. This is where social media really likes to help female artists—by helping them to “promote” their work, of course. Just make sure to throw in a few candid shots of yourself on the beach, casually reclining next to your latest abstract piece. Now, don’t get us wrong. There’s nothing wrong with embracing your body and expressing confidence. But in an industry where men can literally just post a picture of their canvas and a few cryptic quotes, women? We’ve got to work twice as hard—not just to create meaningful art but to market it by any means necessary. It’s all very meta. You’re an artist, but to get the art noticed, you have to become an influencer. Oh, and also, throw in a little skin. Otherwise, how could anyone possibly appreciate your work without the added bonus of your ‘sellable’ persona? Shattering Stereotypes: What Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin Do Best So, what’s the antidote to all this nonsense? If anyone can teach us how to break free from these ridiculous expectations, it's Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin. These two powerhouse artists defy the norms with their work, proving that art is far from being confined to “feminine” expectations. Elizabeth’s work, with its emotional depth and innovative use of materials, leaves no room for misinterpretation. She’s not here for your labels. Her art speaks loud and clear, and let’s be honest—no one’s going to mistake her for “cute.” Sandy Goodwin, too, continues to push boundaries, creating art that challenges perception while navigating a world that wants to box her into a specific “feminine” role. These women are unapologetically themselves. They aren’t here to play nice or fit into anyone's tidy little expectations. Instead, they’re shattering stereotypes and showing the world that being a female artist is not about being "cute"—it’s about being complex, layered, and unstoppable. Cheers to the Women Who Make Art (and Take No Prisoners) In conclusion, let’s raise a glass (filled with whatever you like) to the Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwins of the world. Women who continue to create, break barriers, and fight the absurdity of an art world that, despite all of its progress, still places ridiculous expectations on their work—and their bodies. Let’s not forget, though: these women are more than just “artists.” They’re warriors in a world that still finds it difficult to take them seriously. They are taking over the art world, one piece of art (and one Instagram post) at a time. So, here’s to all the women out there showing their creativity, their resilience, and yes, their strength—even when it’s not appreciated in the ways it should be. Keep painting, keep posting, and—please, for the love of all things—keep your clothes on when you can. Your art deserves better than that. To Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin, thank you for showing us what real art looks like. Keep making waves, because we’ll be here watching, and this time, we’ll be appreciating the art, not the packaging. Domestic violence is a taboo that is still regarded as somewhat of a taboo in many societies, but it an issue that too many people deal with. Artists can play an important role in educating about this, whether they come from a place of personal experience or merely as an observer or concerned citizen. Each voice that publicizes this emotive topic shines light on something that thrives in darkness.
Surviving domestic violence is an act of strength and resilience. It requires not only the courage to endure but also the bravery to leave and rebuild a life shattered by trauma. For survivors, each step forward is a testament to their inner power, a refusal to be defined by the pain inflicted upon them. This strength is not merely the absence of fear but the decision to persist despite it—to reclaim autonomy, self-worth, and a voice that was silenced. The legacy of trauma, however, is complex and enduring. It lingers in the form of hypervigilance, trust issues, and emotional scars that can resurface unpredictably. Yet, within this legacy lies the potential for profound transformation. Acknowledging the pain without allowing it to dictate the future is an act of defiance against those who sought to diminish. Healing involves unraveling the narratives imposed by abusers and rewriting them with self-compassion and honesty. Therapy, support networks, and creative expression can serve as powerful tools for this journey, helping survivors process their experiences and find meaning beyond survival. Turning trauma into strength involves embracing vulnerability as a source of power rather than weakness. Survivors often develop heightened empathy, resilience, and an acute understanding of human nature. This hard-won insight can become a guiding force, transforming personal pain into advocacy, art, or mentorship for others who share similar struggles. The ability to survive and rebuild becomes a narrative of hope—not just for the individual but for others still trapped in silence. In this way, the legacy of trauma is not only a reminder of what was endured but also of what was overcome. It is a source of strength that proves survival is not the end of the story but the beginning of a new chapter defined by self-determination and the fierce will to live freely. Red Tangles, a photographic exhibition by Diana Juliusdottir examining domestic violence, opens on Thursday March 13 and runs until March 27.  Mahsa Amini (2023) by Sandi Goodwin Why Women Artists Matter, Especially in Marginalized Societies
Women artists hold a profound significance in marginalized societies where their rights are persistently under attack. In these environments, where freedom of expression is stifled and gender equality remains a distant ideal, women’s art becomes a radical act of resistance. Through their work, women artists challenge oppressive norms, expose injustice, and give voice to the silenced. Art, in this context, is not merely a form of expression but a lifeline—a way to document lived experiences, resist erasure, and demand change. Women’s art often intertwines the personal with the political, capturing the complexities of identity, freedom, and survival. In societies where women's voices are systematically suppressed, their art serves as an alternative record of history and culture—one that refuses to be erased. It reclaims narratives, portrays resilience, and insists on the validity of women's perspectives. The act of creating itself becomes a declaration of existence, a refusal to be invisibilized. In this way, women artists in marginalized societies transform art into a weapon against patriarchy and an archive of resistance. Solidarity Across Borders: How Women Artists in Freer Societies Can Support Others Women artists in societies that enjoy relative freedoms have a unique role to play in supporting their sisters in more oppressive contexts. Their freedom to create and communicate without severe repercussions positions them as powerful allies. This support can manifest in several ways:
The Power of Women’s Art as a Message of Strength and Defiance Women’s art is a potent force for change. It embodies defiance against systems that seek to silence and oppress. When women portray their realities—whether through painting, performance, or installations—they declare their existence and resilience. Art has the power to transcend borders, languages, and cultural barriers, making women’s struggles visible to the world. Moreover, women’s art often carries a deeply symbolic language that resonates universally. From reinterpreting ancient myths to exposing the raw pain of contemporary injustices, women artists weave personal and collective memories into powerful critiques of patriarchy and oppression. In doing so, they not only challenge the status quo but also offer visions of alternative futures—ones where women’s voices are not just heard but lead the way. In essence, women artists matter because they refuse to be silenced. Their art is both a mirror and a beacon, reflecting the harsh realities of oppression while lighting a path towards equality and justice. By standing together across borders, women artists can amplify this message of strength, defiance, and hope—insisting that no woman, no matter where she lives, stands alone. |
