Who Gets to Be an Artist? And Why Is It So Hard to Claim the Word?

If you make art but don't feel entitled to call yourself an artist, you're definitely not alone.

One of the questions I asked Andi Dawson during Episode 4 of my podcast was:

Have you ever felt uncomfortable describing yourself as an artist?

Her answer was immediate.

Yes. Every single time.

And I completely understood.

Because I've felt it too.

In fact, I think there is something really interesting about the word artist.

It isn't just a description.

For many of us, it feels like a title we have to earn.

"They're not really art"

When Andi and I first met at an exhibition, she told me she didn't know how to price her work.

Why?

Because she wasn't entirely convinced it was art.

They were painted canvases she'd made, but in her mind they weren't quite legitimate enough.

And that's fascinating.

Because she creates.

She writes.

She illustrates.

She has published more than 30 children's books.

She exhibits her work.

She has developed her own visual style.

And yet that little voice still says:

Are you really an artist?

I know that voice.

I suspect a lot of creative people do.

Who gave us permission to decide?

Andi's relationship with creativity goes back to childhood.

She wrote her first story when she was about five, accompanied by stick-figure illustrations.

She continued writing poetry through school and later studied English and Communication Arts.

But there was also another message she received.

She wanted to do art at school.

She was told she wasn't good enough.

So she didn't take that path.

Except the story didn't end there.

Years later, she came back to art.

She taught herself.

She developed her illustration style through practice.

She started creating books.

She published them herself.

And she kept going.

There's something rather wonderful about that.

Because eventually you have to ask:

Who gets to decide whether you're good enough?

The inner critic doesn't always disappear

The answer, unfortunately, isn't that once you become successful, the voice magically disappears.

Andi still described having an inner critic.

The old voice from the art teacher hasn't necessarily vanished.

It has simply been joined by another voice — the one that remembers being encouraged.

Her English teacher had been a real cheerleader for her writing.

That encouragement stayed with her too.

So there are competing voices.

One says:

You're not good enough.

Another says:

Actually, you are good at this. Keep going.

Andi's stubbornness and determination mean that the second voice tends to win often enough to get the work done.

But the critic can still turn up afterwards.

It's not good enough.

It could have been better.

You're not really an artist.

Sound familiar?

I know this feeling

I told Andi that I had experienced something very similar.

I've had creative training.

I've worked professionally in creative fields.

I've exhibited my work.

I've had a solo exhibition.

I've spent years developing my own practice.

And yet I still remember reaching a point where I questioned whether I was really a "proper" fine artist.

Especially because I'm self-taught as a painter.

There is a strange hierarchy that we seem to create around creativity.

The person who went to art school must be more of an artist.

The person with the degree must be more legitimate.

The person with gallery representation must be more serious.

The person who sells their work must count.

The person who doesn't sell must be a hobbyist.

And the person painting in their spare room?

Well… they're just doing art.

But who decided that?

When does a hobby become art?

This is something I think about a lot.

If you paint every weekend, are you an artist?

If you write stories but haven't published them, are you a writer?

If you make ceramics in your shed, are you a ceramic artist?

If you've never sold a single thing you've made, does that somehow make your creativity less valid?

And what if you don't want to make money from it?

Does that make it less important?

I don't think creativity works that neatly.

Art isn't created by a certificate.

A degree can teach you skills.

A qualification can give you knowledge.

An exhibition can give you validation.

Selling your work can tell you that somebody else values it.

But none of those things magically transform you into an artist.

And their absence doesn't necessarily mean you aren't one.

The particularly interesting question: would we ask a man?

During our conversation, Andi and I ended up asking another question.

Would we even ask a male artist whether he considered himself an artist?

It's an interesting thought.

Why does the question of legitimacy sometimes feel so loaded for women?

Why do women so often feel the need to prove that they deserve the space they're occupying?

Not just in art.

At work.

In leadership.

In business.

In creative industries.

Even in everyday life.

There's that strange pressure to demonstrate that you're qualified before you're allowed to confidently say:

This is what I do.

The danger of waiting for permission

Maybe that's the biggest problem.

If you wait until somebody else confirms that you're an artist, you might be waiting forever.

There will always be somebody who thinks your work isn't good enough.

Someone who doesn't understand it.

Someone who thinks you should paint differently.

Someone who has more qualifications.

Someone who has more followers.

Someone who sells more.

Someone younger.

Someone more successful.

Someone with a bigger studio.

Someone whose work looks more "professional".

There is always going to be somebody further along a particular path.

But that doesn't mean you aren't walking your own.

Your creativity is allowed to develop

One of the things I loved about Andi's story was her honesty about how much her illustration style has changed.

She can look back at her early work and see the difference.

Of course she can.

She has practised.

She's experimented.

She's made mistakes.

She's learned.

She's developed.

That's what artists do.

We don't emerge fully formed.

We grow.

And sometimes I think we're far too harsh on ourselves because we compare our current work with somebody else's finished, polished, developed practice.

Or we compare where we are now with where we think we should be.

Instead, perhaps we should occasionally look backwards.

Look at what you made five years ago.

Ten years ago.

Or even six months ago.

Look at what you've learned.

Look at what you can do now that you couldn't do then.

That's progress.

And then there's the word "artist"

Perhaps we need to take some of the power away from the word.

Maybe being an artist isn't about reaching a particular level.

Maybe it isn't about being famous.

Maybe it isn't about selling work.

Maybe it isn't about having a gallery.

Maybe it isn't even about being "good".

Maybe it's about choosing to engage seriously with your creativity.

To make things.

To explore ideas.

To ask questions.

To keep learning.

To keep looking.

To keep creating.

And to allow yourself to say:

I'm an artist.

Even if a little voice inside you immediately responds:

Are you sure?

Never forget to dream

Andi has a beautiful phrase at the end of her children's books:

Never forget to dream.

It came from a bedtime conversation with her daughter, and it has become a recurring message throughout her work.

Don't shut down your imagination.

Don't squash it.

Don't stifle it.

Don't decide that you're too old.

Don't decide you're not talented enough.

Don't decide that somebody else's opinion is more important than your own desire to create.

And perhaps that's a message worth carrying beyond childhood.

Because adults need permission to dream too.

Maybe especially adults.

So, who gets to be an artist?

Perhaps the answer is much simpler than we make it.

The person who chooses to create.

You don't need somebody standing beside you with a clipboard confirming that you've passed the test.

You don't need permission.

You don't need to wait until you're "good enough".

And you certainly don't need to wait until you feel like an artist.

Sometimes you have to start by doing the thing.

Then do it again.

And again.

And eventually you look back and realise:

Oh.

I've been an artist all along.

Listen to Episode 4

This conversation with Andi Dawson went in so many directions — from children's books and storytelling to motherhood, feminism, creativity, self-doubt, invisible labour and the impossible pressure to do everything.

And somewhere in the middle of it, we found ourselves asking a surprisingly simple question:

Who gets to call themselves an artist?

If you've ever struggled with that question yourself, I think you'll enjoy this episode.

Listen to Episode 4 of the Liz Dees Art Podcast: The Impossible Juggling Act — A Conversation with Andi Dawson.

https://youtu.be/InjEoMSsVr8?si=-4hgyrRbnkyqeCzv