Why art matters: beauty, presence and the quiet work of seeing

Why do we create art? Why have human beings, throughout history, felt compelled to capture moments of beauty, express what words cannot, and leave traces of their experience behind?

These questions sit at the heart of every artist's journey. Beyond technique, materials, and the finished object lies a deeper exploration of meaning: what we choose to notice, what we choose to preserve, and what we hope to share with others.

In this reflection, I explore the enduring importance of art, the many forms of value a painting can hold, and the possibility that creating, and experiencing, art can be something more than an aesthetic encounter. Perhaps art is also an act of presence: a way of slowing down, paying attention, and reconnecting with the wonder, fragility, and beauty of the world around us.

There are moments in every artist's life when the questions seem to arrive uninvited. Those nagging questions about what this artistic life is all about.

Those questions have always been there for me. I was fortunate enough to have studied philosophy at university, all the way up to Master's level. For a full year, during my third year of study, we focused on the philosophy of aesthetics, led by the very astute and aesthetically sensitive Prof. Johan Snyman. 

Lately, the questions have been calling louder, especially as I progressed work on my latest collection of paintings, called A Love Written in Paeonia.

Why does any of this matter?

Is another painting really needed in a world already overflowing with images?

Does the work I spend hours, days, or weeks creating hold any value beyond the canvas itself?

I know from my years as a philosophy student that these are not questions unique to artists. They are deeply human questions. They ask us to consider why we create, why we seek beauty, and why we are moved by things that serve no practical purpose.

For thousands of years, people have painted cave walls, carved stone, woven cloth, written poetry, sung songs, and told stories. They did these things long before there were galleries, museums, critics, or collectors. Art was never merely decoration. It was, and remains, one of humanity's oldest ways of making sense of the world.

We often speak of art as something we look at. From the work on my latest collection, I have come to believe that art is something we enter. A painting is not simply pigment arranged on canvas. It is a meeting place between the artist, the subject, and the viewer. Each brings something of themselves to the encounter, and the artwork becomes richer because of it.

I stood before nine blank panels when creating this new collection. I realised that when I stand before a blank panel or canvas, I am rarely thinking about producing an object, that is, something to hang on a wall that is pretty, which is discarded in our throw-away culture when it's no longer needed. Instead, I am asking myself a quieter question: what is worth noticing?

In a culture that rewards speed and constant distraction, painting asks something entirely different of us. It asks us to slow down. To observe. To become fully present.

Hours spent studying the curve of a leaf, the delicate bloom on a plum, the weathered lines on a face, or the changing light across a landscape are not simply exercises in technique. They are exercises in attention.

The French philosopher Simone Weil wrote that "attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity". I find myself returning to those words often. Perhaps that is one of art's deepest gifts. It teaches us to pay attention.

The world offers extraordinary beauty every day, yet much of it passes unnoticed. We rush from one commitment to another, our eyes fixed on what comes next rather than on what is before us. Painting gently resists that pace. It invites us to linger.

The subjects I am drawn to are rarely dramatic. A weathered face. Wildflowers gathered from a roadside. Fruit resting quietly on a table. A landscape softened by evening light. A peony bloom from my garden.

Some might describe these as ordinary subjects. I have never believed they are ordinary.

They remind me that beauty does not shout. It whispers. It waits patiently for those willing to stop long enough to see it.

Over time, I have realised that every painting changes not only the canvas but also the painter. Each work teaches patience, humility, perseverance, and a willingness to begin again when something isn't quite right. There are moments of frustration, of uncertainty, and of unexpected discovery. Every brushstroke becomes part of an ongoing conversation between observation, memory, intuition, and hope. And goodness knows, the creation of this collection saw many moments of frustration, where I needed to discard the work, observe again, and start all over. 

Whether or not a painting ever hangs in someone's home, wins an award, or finds its way into a collection, that quiet transformation has already taken place.

Of course, artworks have financial value. They have technical value, historical value, and cultural value. They become records of a particular time, place, and way of seeing.

But I suspect their deepest value lies elsewhere.

A painting has the capacity to make someone pause. To remember. To feel. To notice.

Perhaps it reminds them of a grandmother's kitchen, the scent of jasmine carried on the evening air, or the softness of light falling across a familiar garden. Perhaps it awakens a memory they thought they had lost, or offers comfort during a difficult season of life.

No artist can predict this. We simply create the possibility.

As someone who studied philosophy before becoming an artist, I have often found myself wondering whether there is also a spiritual dimension to making art.

Not because every painting is religious. Rather because genuine creativity requires presence.

Many spiritual traditions speak of stillness, contemplation, attentiveness, and wonder. Painting asks exactly the same things of us. It asks us to look beyond appearances, to dwell with our subject, and to discover meaning within what first seems commonplace.

There is something quietly sacred about giving your full attention to another living thing.

Perhaps every painting is, in its own way, an act of gratitude. A way of saying, I saw this. It mattered. It was beautiful.

I don't believe artists create beauty where none existed before. Beauty already surrounds us. Our task is simply to notice it and, if we are fortunate, help others notice it too.

That may be the true work of art. Not to impress. Not to decorate. Not even to explain.

But to awaken.

To invite us back into the present moment.

To remind us that amidst all the noise of modern life there is still quietness, still wonder, still mystery, and still beauty waiting to be seen.

When people ask me whether art is important, I no longer think first about galleries, exhibitions, or art markets.

I think about attention.

I think about presence.

I think about the quiet miracle that occurs when another human being stands before a painting, falls silent for a moment, and sees the world, or perhaps themselves, a little differently than they did before.

If a single painting can offer that gift, then perhaps it has already fulfilled its purpose.

And perhaps that is reason enough to keep painting.