You don't need permission to be an Artist

"Can I call myself an artist?"

This question comes up for almost every creator at some point. Some claim the title without a second thought. Others hold back, feeling they need to earn it first.

It stayed with me for years, especially in the early days of my path as an illustrator. The internet has no shortage of tutorials on brushwork and technique, but almost nothing about the quieter, harder part of being a creator: the part that happens in your head.

The dictionary defines an artist plainly: a person who produces paintings or drawings as a profession or hobby, or who practices any form of creative art, such as sculpture, writing, poetry, or filmmaking.

Over the years, students have asked me things like "What brush should I use?", "How do I find my style?", or "How to build an art career?” My answers tend to come out more matter-of-fact than they expect. After enough years in the field, the mystery around creativity wears thin. What once felt like magic now looks more like a set of steps you can name, learn, and repeat.

If you're hoping for a manual titled "The Right Way to Become an Artist," I have to disappoint you. It doesn't exist.

There is nothing sacred about the title of artist, even if the act of making art can feel that way. No one is waiting to permit you. The word is simply the name of a practice. If you play a sport, you're an athlete. If you take photographs, you're a photographer. If you make art, you're an artist.

Money has nothing to do with whether you're an artist. We're taught, often without noticing, that only things with a price tag are worth taking seriously. That belief quietly convinces people they can't call themselves artists until someone pays them for it. In truth, someone who earns a living from their art is a professional artist, a separate thing entirely. You can be an artist and never sell a single piece.

Vincent van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime, and yet no one questions whether he was an artist. His name is inseparable from art history itself.

That said, money changes the shape of the work. I know many artists who rarely find time for the projects closest to their hearts, because commercial work keeps the lights on.

I'll admit I'm skeptical of how much we glorify labor. I don't think most people love working for its own sake, and that's fine. Some do find real meaning in their jobs, and I'm not suggesting everyone should quit and disappear into the woods. What I mean is simpler: you deserve room to create what moves you, without every hour being claimed by survival.

Still, artists need to eat, like everyone else. There's no shame in selling your work or taking on commissions. If you can, support the artists you love by buying their work.

Van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime: The Red Vineyard at Arles, now held at the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. The rest of his more than 900 paintings found recognition only after his death—source: Van Gogh Gallery.

The advice I return to most often is: create as often as you can. Daily is wonderful, if that's realistic for you. Twice a week is just as valid. Consistency matters far more than frequency.

There's no quota of finished pieces required before you've earned the title. And while showing up daily helps, I know plenty of serious artists who've stepped away for long stretches because life demanded it. That's normal. Our days fill up with responsibility, and creative energy doesn't always have room to breathe.

So don't measure yourself against the sheer volume someone else produces. Someone who spends eight hours a day at their craft will naturally build a larger body of work and likely years of practice that make the process faster and smoother.

Johannes Vermeer, the Dutch Baroque painter, made only thirty-four to thirty-six paintings in his entire life. A handful of them, including Girl with a Pearl Earring, are known the world over.

Tip: Keep every drawing, even the quick doodles on a napkin, while you wait for lunch. Date them, and save them somewhere you'll find them again. Over time, you'll have a real record of your progress, proof that growth rarely moves in a straight line, but it is always happening.

One rule I hold onto: don't compare your path to anyone else's. Every journey has its own shape. I admire an artist named Astri Lohne a great deal. When I learned we were the same age, I fell into a spiral of "my work isn't as good as hers." But once I looked closer at her history, I saw she'd started studying art far earlier than I had, in a place with far more resources at hand. Our paths were never going to look the same. That's why I'd encourage you to learn a little about the artists you admire: their timeline, their background, where they started. It tends to soften the harshness of comparison.

The moment I felt entitled to that word had nothing to do with finishing my degree in Visual Communication, or hitting some number of years or finished pieces. It came the day I allowed myself to claim it, flaws included, and began introducing myself that way.

I remember thinking: if so many people move through the world with far less self-doubt than they've earned, why shouldn't I claim the space I've actually worked for?

Whether this statement brings you joy or frustration, there's no manual, and no milestone you're required to hit first. If you make art, however you'd judge it, you already have the right to call yourself an artist. You have the right to take up space. What you make adds something to the world that nothing else could.

If you'd like to sit with these ideas a little longer, both of these are short, under 200 pages: