I’m not professional – I’m me. And that’s enough
- Alessanara
- Jun 6
- 4 min read
The art world is a bit like a well-curated Instagram feed: everything looks the same. Everything is neat. Everything has pastel backgrounds, light filters, and all the artists pose seriously, minimally, and with as little emotion as possible.
And then there’s me. With messy hair, cocoa stains on the table, and an absurd fondness for little bunny-mice with personality disorders.
Why I'm Not an Art Robot Drone
(and Don't Want to Be One Either)
I tried. Honestly. I spent hours researching how to appear “professional” as an artist. I analyzed Instagram profiles where every story looks like an aesthetic music video. I considered whether I could force myself to sit still and gaze reverently at my easel while a scented candle burns in the background—one that smells like Ambivalence.
Then I tried to make a reel like that. Three minutes later, there was paint on the lens and I’d produced a cross-eyed selfie. I tripped, and my light fell over.
Result: I am not an art machine. I’m a human. With humor. With chaos. With cookie crumbs in the studio. With the urge to write down ideas in the middle of the night because my brain doesn’t do “clocking out.” I’m an artistic blend of excitement, doubt, and absurd mental detours.
And honestly? I like it that way. I don’t want to be polished. I don’t want to look like a product. I want to live. And I want that to be visible.
About the Feeling of Always Having to Be “Serious”
There’s this subtle pressure in the art scene: Be serious. Be profound. Be professional. Speak in words that sound like art history, use technical terms, wear muted colors. Don’t stand out. But also—don’t be boring. And please: Always remain composed, in control, and a little mysterious.
Me? I’m just glad if I don’t trip over the word “acrylic” when I speak. I have more fantasies about weird animals in capes than about exhibition strategies. And when I talk about a piece, I say things like: “There was this feeling, and then I just started painting. And then it became a rabbit full of longing.”
Sometimes I just want to paint a unicorn staring wistfully at a banana. And laugh out loud while doing it. Because it feels good. Because I need that. Because for me, art also means lightness. And freedom. Not just meaning and meaningfulness.
I don’t want to be a performance. I don’t want to be a gallery illusion. I want to be me. With all my quirks, colors, mis-strokes, and damn inner confetti. If someone gives me a stage, they won’t get monochrome monologues. They’ll get wordplay, wild brushstrokes, and honest chaos.
I’m not chaotic – I’m structured, emotionally intuitive, and organized in my own way
My studio looks like a craft store exploded after a cocoa overdose. But I can find everything in it. Really everything. Even if it might look like a paint lab has been blown to pieces.
On my desk, you’ll find to-do lists that start with “tidy up website” and end with “draw an otter wearing a rainbow hat.” In between: color swatches, tea bags, sticker sheets, loose brushes, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and a note that simply says “Ink creature?!”
I work with a system – my own. One that doesn’t follow clocks, but energy flows and emotional color bursts.
I call it: free creation with optional madness.
Others call it chaos. I call it home.A place where my thoughts are allowed to jump around in color.Where ideas don’t have to stand in line, but dance, flicker, whisper.Where creativity doesn’t move in straight lines, but spirals, zigzags, and occasional wild detours.
Humor is not a break in style – it's my style
I love to laugh. At my art. At myself. Especially at myself. Because if you can laugh at yourself, you've already disarmed half the world.
Because I believe humor doesn't contradict depth. Humor makes things honest. You can touch a subject through a laughing fit. You can express feelings not just through tragedy, but also through total nonsense with lots of color.
My art can hurt. But it can also be silly. It doesn’t have to take itself seriously – and maybe says more because of it than any pathos-filled painting with a tragic title.
I believe in the power of smiling. In art that makes you laugh – and only later makes you think. I want people to look at my work and grin. Or feel confused. Or think: "What the hell was she thinking?" – and that’s when I stick in their minds. That’s when something starts to happen.
Why I’m not like everyone else –
and why I never want to be
I’m done pretending. Not on social media. Not in artist talks. Not when selling my art. I’m tired of the idea that you have to fit in to be taken seriously. That only those who are quiet and polished are considered "professional."
I just want to be who I am. Colorful. Quirky. Wild. Emotional. Honest. Sometimes silent. Sometimes loud. Always unique.
Because if I’ve learned one thing, it’s this: Art is powerful when it’s real. When it doesn’t just look good – but feels like something. When it’s not polished to perfection, but a little rough. A little strange. A little… you.
And I can only do that if I don’t castrate myself for an algorithm. If I paint what I feel. If I post what brings me joy. Not what’s “popular.”
So: I am me. Sometimes loud, sometimes quiet. Sometimes poetic, sometimes sassy. Sometimes an artistic mess, sometimes a miracle. But always me.
PS: If you're looking for someone who looks “professional” – keep scrolling. But if you're looking for someone who paints with passion, laughs out loud while drawing, stumbles over herself and shows it all: Welcome. You’re in the right place.
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