Why is it that when we meet someone, we go straight for the what?
What do you do? What’s your job, your title, your category, your label? What’s your niche, your medium, your thing?
Why is that the first box we try to shove each other into?
Why do we cling to what like it tells us all there is to know?
What if the what we ask is too small?
What if what isn’t the destination—but a distraction?
What if what could be wide enough to make room for why?
Why did you choose to be an artist in a world that measures worth in clicks?
Why do you flatten yourself for algorithms?
Why don’t you post about being bored with your partner, or creatively constipated, or tired of being inspiring?
Why do you celebrate breakthroughs but not the months of mental sludge that precede them?
Why are you embarrassed by effort?
How did your childhood shape your use of colour?
How does your fear of abandonment show up in your brushstrokes?
Why did you stop making art for three years—and what dragged you back?
How is your art entangled with your loneliness, your rage, your desire, your joy?
What did you feel the first time you realized someone would leave you and they did?
What did your worst year smell like?
Why are you trying to be palatable?
Did your grandmother’s silence shape your sense of colour?
What do you remember when you smell oranges?
Did your favourite colour change after your divorce?
What does silence sound like for you?
Why haven’t you made anything in six months—or is that rest a kind of making, too?
Does your favourite mug belong to someone you miss?
How did you feel when you realized you were no longer the person you thought you’d become?
Why did you choose that colour, that rhythm, that silence, that line?
Why did you stop calling that friend?
What do you doodle on your grocery lists?
Does your skincare routine say something about your approach to failure?
What did you believe about yourself at 10—and do you still do?
Why do you keep showing up when it’s hard?
Why do you rest the way you rest?
Why do you move the way you move?
Why do you stay?
Why do you leave?
Why are you here?
Why don’t I remember why I walked into the kitchen?
Why do I scroll instead of sitting with my own questions?
Why do I think you might have the answers?
Why am I writing this instead of doing something productive?
Why am I asking all these questions?
Why do I keep playing along?
Why do I feel the need to pick a lane when every part of me is swerving?
Why do I want to know the reasons under the routine, the ache behind the aesthetics?
Why do I want to know what broke your voice, and what gave it back?
Is your creativity more interesting when I know your fears?
Is your art more beautiful when I know your grief?
Are your photos more powerful when I know your shame?
Why do I care?
Why are we acting like our creativity comes with an instruction manual?
Why is everyone making content and no one making sense?
Why is there a 12-step routine for everything but no instructions for how to keep showing up in a life that more and more often feels like a cracked vase with mouldy water?
Why do we chase productivity when what we really want is permission?
Why do we gloss over the stuff that makes our voice, our style, our weird little mark on the world truly ours?
Why do we pretend we “like” minimalism instead of admitting we’re terrified of mess?
Why don’t we admit our neutral-toned aesthetic is emotional repression?
Why are we scared of being too much, too loud, too curious, too intense, too contradictory, too inconsistent?
Why is nuance such a hard sell?
Why can’t we hold multiple truths in one body without exploding or apologizing?
Why are we afraid of sharing the messy, layered, tangled human reasons behind what we do?
Why do we dilute ourselves into easy-to-digest categories for public consumption?
Why do we care about being “on brand” when we contain multitudes, contradictions, paradoxes, ugly edges, and complicated timelines?
Why are we pretending that healing, art, identity, and belonging are linear paths with bullet points and matching fonts?
Are we all just desperate to be known beyond our outputs?
Why do we crave order in ourselves and chaos in our art?
Is art just a gateway drug to human connection?
Shouldn’t we talk about stories instead of strategies?
Why do we share the surface and hoard the soul?
Why are we afraid of being too much, when really we’re afraid of not being enough?
Are we terrified of being known?
Is asking art?
Do we want less performance and more presence?
Why is it easier to name a colour than a feeling?
Why are we better at sharing what we’re making, eating, organizing, painting—but not that or why we care?
Why does nobody talk about their half-finished ideas?
Should we all get a little more unhinged, unpolished, unfiltered—in the best (worst?) possible way?
Are we more relatable in the mess than in the masterpiece?
Is it more fun to explore than to explain?
Is being interested just as powerful as being interesting?
Why are you here?
Why indeed? For content like this, of course! Long known as the one who ALWAYS has a question, I love them, especially these. Thanks for the peek into your thought process.