We’ve been taught to think of art as extra. Something you add on once everything else is handled-once the bills are paid, the house is decorated, the “important” things are taken care of.
But I don’t think art is extra.
I think it’s essential.
And I know that might sound like a bold claim, especially in a world where art is often tied to price tags and privilege. Yes, there are high-end pieces and luxury markets—that’s real. But that’s not what I’m talking about here.
I’m talking about the kind of art that’s available to all of us.
The kind that meets you where you are.
Public murals that stop you mid-walk.
Music that catches you off guard in the car.
A community theater performance where you can feel the vulnerability from the stage.
A choir of high school students singing their hearts out.
If anything, I would argue that these forms of art-the ones that are most accessible-are some of the most important.
Because they remind us what it feels like to be human.
I think back to who I was in high school-a pretty classic science-loving, slightly nerdy kid. And somehow, I found my place in choir. Not because I was trying to become a professional singer, but because it gave me something I didn’t even realize I needed at the time: connection.
We were all part of creating something together-something fleeting and imperfect and beautiful. And the best part? It didn’t cost anything extraordinary. But what it gave us was priceless.
I saw that same kind of magic again recently at my bonus daughter’s choir concert.
Sitting there, listening to a group of teenagers sing “To Make You Feel My Love,” I felt it all over again-that quiet, unexpected swell of emotion. The kind that catches in your throat before you even realize what’s happening.
It was their voices, yes.
But it was also memory.
Recognition.
A reminder of what it feels like to be moved.
And I’ll be honest-I probably teared up.
Because that’s what art does.
It reaches past logic and lands somewhere deeper.
It nourishes us.
Not in the way food or water does, but in a way that feels just as necessary. We need beauty. We need moments that slow us down enough to actually feel something. We need spaces-whether physical or emotional-where we’re allowed to soften.
That’s a big part of why I paint.
Not to create something decorative.
But to create something that holds a feeling.
For me, painting has always been a way back to myself-a way to step out of the noise and into something quieter, something more honest. It’s where I go to process, to breathe, to reconnect. And over time, it’s become something more than that. It’s become a way to offer that same experience to someone else.
Because even if I don’t always get to witness how a piece lands in someone’s home or life, I know it matters.
I know it because I’ve felt it-standing in front of someone else’s work, listening to a song at just the right moment, sitting in a room where something beautiful shifts the entire energy.
Art does that.
It changes how a space feels.
It changes how we feel.
So no, I don’t believe art is a luxury.
I think it’s a way of staying connected to ourselves in a world that constantly pulls us away.
And whether that looks like visiting a local exhibit, turning up a song you love, picking up a paintbrush, or bringing a piece of art into your home-
it all counts.
It all matters.
So consider this your invitation:
Bring something into your life that makes you feel.
Something that slows you down.
Something that reminds you-if only for a moment-that you’re here, and that being here is something to experience fully.
That’s what art is for.
