Rest Your Weary Bones, and Tell the Damn Story

I didn’t dive headfirst back into the world of art because I thought it was a sensible career move. I’m not that far gone. I came back to it because creating art keeps me marginally sane. However, if you want to make a living from art, and not just hoard sketchbooks and existential dread, you’ve got to connect with people. And not in the vague, cosmic, “we’re all made of stardust” kind of way. I mean real connection. The kind that makes someone stop scrolling, and conjure up an expression of interest. And the best way to make that happen? Tell a story.

Not just the one in the artwork—though that’s probably a good idea—but the story behind it. The why. The when. The who-was-breathing-down-your-neck-while-you-were-trying-to-finish-it. People don’t just buy art. They buy what it means to them. They buy the feeling it gives them, the story they can tell about it, the piece of you they get to take home and hang on their wall. It’s part of their identity.

People want to know what was going on in your head when you created that hypnotic bat. They want to know why you keep drawing obscure animals, what possessed you to turn an ant wallpaper into sock art, and whether your brain works in spirals or just perpetual panic. They want to feel like they know you—even just a little. Because then, buying your art becomes something more. It becomes a moment. A connection. A memory.

You don’t need to manufacture a glamorous narrative. Just tell the truth. Even if the truth is that you were drawing flying fish while your kids were melting down in the next room. Or that you came up with your best ideas while hiding in your car with a sketchbook and some questionable snacks. That stuff is gold. It’s human. It’s real. And it gives your art something algorithms can’t replicate: heart.

You have to make people care. And the way you do that is by sharing your weird little world with them. Let them in. Tell them what inspired that jellyfish, how you accidentally invented your style during a creative breakdown, or why you keep coming back to certain colours, shapes, and creatures like they’re old friends. Your story isn’t a marketing gimmick. It’s the bridge. The thing that takes your art from “nice picture” to “I need this in my life.”

I’m endlessly grateful that anyone shows up to see what I’m making. That someone out there, scrolling through a thousand things a day, stops and chooses my strange little universe to step into for a moment. That’s magic. It really is. But it only happens when I open the door. When I share not just the art, but the why and the how and the mess behind it. It’s not about being polished. It’s about being honest. And maybe a little bit unhinged.