There’s a strange hesitation around the word artist.

People will say:
“I paint.”
“I take photos.”
“I make things.”
“I’m creative.”

But they stop just short of the word itself.

As though “artist” is something handed out by a panel somewhere.
As if there’s a test.
A level.
A permission slip.

I’ve noticed how uncomfortable I can be with it too. When it comes to explaining what it is I do, I hesitate.

Not because I don’t create.
Not because I don’t spend hours painting, photographing, editing, thinking, learning, doubting, trying again.

But somewhere along the way, many of us learned that being an artist only counts if it’s profitable, impressive, consistent, or validated by someone else, not to mention the stereotypes attached to what an “artist” is supposed to look like

If your work hangs in galleries.
If people buy it.
If you went to art school.
If you’re confident enough.
If you’re fearless enough.
If you’ve “made it.”

And if you haven’t done all those things?
You feel like a fraud for even considering the title.

The strange thing is, I would never look at someone else creating with honesty and tell them they aren’t an artist yet.

I wouldn’t look at someone covered in paint, trying again after ruining a canvas, staying up late editing photos, carrying ideas around in their head constantly, and say:
“Come back when you’re more legitimate.”

But we say it to ourselves all the time.

Maybe because calling yourself an artist feels vulnerable.

The moment you say it out loud, it feels like people might start judging not just what you make, but you as well.

Your taste.
Your talent.
Your right to take up space.

For a long time, I think I believed artists were people who created effortlessly.
People untouched by self-doubt.
People who knew exactly who they were.

But the more artists I meet, the more I realise most of them are quietly questioning themselves too.

Some just create anyway.

And maybe that’s the difference.

Not perfection.
Not recognition.
Not numbers.
Not confidence.

Just the need to make something that didn’t exist before.

A painting because the feeling wouldn’t leave you alone.
A photograph because something in the light mattered.
A piece of work that had to be made, even if nobody fully understands it yet.

The other day I realised I’ve been doing my art this way, learning, experimenting, and practicing new techniques, for over 20 years. It’s strange how something can be so consistent in your life and still feel like it doesn’t “count” until you say it out loud.

But even with that, I still found myself questioning whether that was enough.

It counts!

Maybe you become an artist long before you feel ready to use the word.

Maybe the hesitation never fully disappears.

Maybe being an artist isn’t about certainty at all.

Maybe it’s simply about continuing to create, even while doubting yourself.

And if that’s true, then I think a lot more of us are artists than we realise.

With love and art,
Corinna Anne