WHY (NOT) SELL PAINTINGS?

“Art for art’s sake.” („L'art pour l'art“)

Until a few years ago, I too believed in this principle without hesitation. I saw art as something almost untouchable: an immaterial, spiritual, transcendental creation of emotion and inner life, something diminished the moment a price is placed upon it, reduced to the marketplace and to commercial value. I believed that the moment art is given a number, it loses part of its nobility. How wrong I was.

While attending the Mastery Programme at the Milan Art Institute, I often listened to debates around this very question. It is one of those subjects that instinctively divides artists: some believe art must be sold because that is the natural continuation of creating, while others believe that this is precisely where its devaluation begins. I vividly remember one of our professors openly admitting that, during her own student years, she too had believed the “lie” that art must not have a price.

She said that as a young artist, she sincerely thought it was enough for someone to deeply desire one of her paintings, to feel it, to recognize something of themselves in it, almost to make a spiritual and emotional promise that they would cherish and protect it above all else — and that this alone was the only true reason to place it in their hands. I remember how deeply that sentence struck me, because I recognized myself in it.

Because how can one truly measure that moment of recognition? How can one measure what happens when someone stands before a painting and finds in it a piece of their own sorrow, longing, beauty, or silence? Is that not the greatest confirmation of its meaning? Is it not enough for someone to see it, feel it, and love it?

When she said this aloud, it was met with surprise, laughter, even incomprehension, especially from those who had never questioned charging for their work. But it was precisely then that I began to understand just how much more complex, intimate, and sensitive this question is than it first appears.

I have gone through that same inner conflict myself. I too once judged those who sold their paintings for high prices, especially when it seemed to me that those works had not required “enough effort,” expensive materials, or some visible sacrifice. Today I am very far from that way of thinking. Today, I sincerely admire anyone who places a high value on their idea, their time, their work, and their courage to stand behind what they create. Because a price is not always an expression of greed. Very often, it is an expression of self-respect.

For a long time, I did not dare put a price on my paintings. And when I finally did, I would often lower it. It always seemed to me that the most important thing was simply someone’s desire to have the painting in their home. That desire felt more important than anything material. And there is still something beautiful in that. I still believe that not every painting is for everyone, and that the truest connections between a painting and its viewer happen rarely, quietly, almost fatefully. Not everyone buys a canvas simply because it matches their curtains or wall color.

And yet today I also believe that selling art does not diminish it — on the contrary, it often affirms its value even more. An exchange must take place. Not only a financial one, but a human, energetic, symbolic one. A painting is not made to remain forever shut away in a studio, leaning against a wall, seen only through the eyes of the painter. It is meant to leave. To become part of someone’s home. To live among people. To speak, to remain silent, to remind, to unsettle, to soothe, to delight — to do what it was created to do. And if an artist truly wishes to live art as a calling, they must also allow their work to have a material dimension.

Art materials are expensive — seriously expensive. Canvases, paints, varnishes, brushes, studio space, education, time — all of it comes at a cost. And alongside that come the very ordinary, very human realities of life: bills, loans, obligations, daily expenses. There is also another important and often flawed idea: that money is the root of all evil. As with anything else, that may be true when taken to excess, when misused, when it feeds what can never be satisfied. But in this case, money is a tool. A means of exchange. A way to invest further, to buy a new canvas, to begin a new series of paintings, to secure the time and peace an artist needs in order to continue creating.

There is another myth I would very much like us to celebrate less: the myth of the starving artist. There is nothing noble, sincere, or authentic about the idea that an artist must struggle in poverty in order to be a “true artist.” On the contrary, it seems to me that we have romanticized exhaustion, deprivation, and sacrifice for far too long, as if art must be born of hunger in order to be worthy. But why? Why would it be more elevated for an artist to spend half the day pouring their energy into work that does not belong to them, simply to pay the bills, while what is truly their calling waits until the end of the day — tired, depleted, diluted? Why would that be morally purer than a life in which an artist lives from their work precisely so they can create more deeply, more responsibly, and more fully?

Sometimes it seems to me that the real “selling out” does not lie in selling a painting, but in accepting a life in which art is always forced to come after everything else.

Over time, I began to understand something else as well: as my skills evolve, so does the value of my paintings. This is simply the natural course of any profession. Just as knowledge, experience, craft, and results are valued in other fields, why should different rules apply to artists? Years of work, study, wandering, trying, failing, and searching for one’s own voice — all of that enters a single canvas, even when it is not immediately visible from the outside. Sometimes the viewer sees only the finished painting. The artist sees all the sleepless nights, all the doubts, and all the previous versions of themselves.

I no longer create only for myself — or at least, I no longer wish to remain solely in that space. I create for those who are like me, and for those who are not, but who are searching. For those who, like me, are trying to understand this world and themselves within it. Because how can I develop my voice if I do not communicate with the world beyond myself? If art is dialogue, then it cannot remain a monologue enclosed within four walls.

Even if art has helped us heal a wounded part of ourselves, our journey does not end there. Why should we not allow that healing to touch someone else as well? Why should we not become a light in someone’s darkness, however modestly a painting may be able to do that?

To be completely honest, I will never forget the moment I sold my first painting. I was ecstatic like a child — I quite literally skipped with joy, and that feeling stayed with me for days. It was a sense of affirmation, joy, disbelief, and victory over my own fears.

But at the same time, there was that other feeling — heavy, strange, unexpected: the feeling of separation. At one point, I even felt an almost irrational desire to buy them back. It was as if only then had I realized how much I loved them while they were still mine, while they were still there, close, still within my sight. That wave of emotion did wash over me, but it did not hold me for long. Soon another, more mature thought followed: although part of me lives in them, they do not belong to me — or at least not only to me.

There is something beautiful in knowing that they have become part of someone’s home, that they will be seen, that they will bring life, story, emotion, perhaps even comfort — that they will live.

That is why today I no longer see this issue in black and white. I do not judge either side. I understand those who never wish to sell their work, who experience their paintings as an extension of their own intimacy. And I understand those who, without guilt, build a professional artistic career and live from their work. Both positions carry their own logic, sensitivity, and reasons.

But when I speak for myself, I feel more and more that I am changing my perspective, questioning it, growing alongside my paintings. I want less hiding, less judging, less living by inherited patterns, and more honesty with myself. And the truth is that I want more and more to share myself with others — and in that exchange I no longer see a betrayal of art, but its continuation.

In the end, I do not believe there is a single rule that applies to every artist. This is not a verdict, but a personal reflection. But I do know that today I believe far less in romantic illusions, and far more in the idea that an artist has the right to live from what they create, to value their work, and to release their art into the world without shame.

And you — where do you stand in this quiet debate? Does a painting lose something when it is given a price, or is that precisely when it truly begins to live its own life?