Creating Art During Uncertain Times

The world feels heavy right now.

War, economic uncertainty, rising costs—turn on the news and it's hard not to feel the weight of it all. I've noticed it in conversations with other artists, with collectors, even just chatting with mates at the gym. There's this underlying anxiety that seems to have settled over everything.

And yet, here I am in my Perth studio, painting.

Not because I'm oblivious to what's happening. Not because art somehow fixes geopolitical crises or stabilises economies. But because I think maybe—especially during times like these—beauty and creativity matter more than ever.

Why I Keep Painting When the World Feels Uncertain

I'll be honest: sales have been slow. Nearly every Australian artist I know is saying the same thing. People are understandably cautious about spending money on anything non-essential right now, and original art—let's be real—sits firmly in the "luxury" category for most households.

I've had to make some hard decisions myself. I've paused my paid advertising. I'm being more careful with materials costs. I'm thinking harder about where every dollar goes.

But I haven't stopped painting. If anything, I'm painting more.

There's something about the act of creating—of transforming a blank canvas into something luminous and alive—that feels necessary right now. When everything else feels out of control, when the news cycle is relentless and exhausting, I can still control this: a brush, paint, colour, light.

For me, painting isn't escapism. It's processing. It's finding moments of peace and beauty and bottling them up so they don't get lost in all the noise.

What I'm Working On Now

I'm currently deep into a new series of slightly smaller works—more intimate, more focused. They emphasise the Australian sky during those early morning or evening moments where the colour absolutely lingers. You know the ones I mean. That soft pink-gold light just after sunrise when the gum trees are still in shadow. Or dusk, when the sky goes lavender and orange and everything feels suspended for just a few minutes before dark.

Usually rural settings. Trees silhouetted against those vast, colour-saturated skies. The kind of scenes you might drive past on a country road and think, "I should stop and just look at this for a minute."

These paintings feel quieter than some of my earlier work. Not less colourful—I'm still very much about bold, exaggerated colour—but more contemplative. Maybe that's a reflection of the times. Maybe it's just where I am right now as an artist. Probably both.

Why Art Matters (Especially Now)

I've been thinking a lot about why people buy art, and what art actually does for us.

On the surface, it's decoration. Something beautiful to hang on a wall. And there's nothing wrong with that—our homes should be filled with things that make us feel good.

But I think original art does something deeper, especially work that focuses on nature and landscape.

It reminds us that beauty still exists. That there are still quiet mornings and golden sunsets and trees that have been standing in the same spot for a hundred years, completely indifferent to human drama.

When you hang a landscape painting in your home—especially one that captures a specific mood or light—it's like having a window into a peaceful moment. A moment that actually happened. That I witnessed, painted, and now you get to live with.

In uncertain times, that matters. Having something in your space that says, "The world is still beautiful. There's still light. There's still colour and calm and things worth paying attention to."

The Reality of Making Art During a Downturn

I won't pretend this is easy. Running an art business during an economic slowdown is challenging. There are days I wonder if I should have kept the gym, kept the steady income, kept art as a side project.

But then I think about what that would mean. Going back to splitting my time, painting in stolen hours, never fully committing to this thing I love.

And I realise: I'd rather paint through a downturn than not paint at all.

So here's what I'm doing instead of panicking:

I'm building inventory. When the market recovers—and it will—I'll have a strong body of work ready. Collectors don't just buy what's available today; they buy from artists who've been consistently creating, consistently showing up.

I'm staying visible. Even if people aren't buying right now, I'm still posting my work, sharing my process, connecting with people who appreciate what I do. When they're ready to buy (whether that's in three months or three years), I want them to remember my name.

I'm focusing on the work itself. Better paintings. Stronger compositions. More emotionally resonant pieces. This quiet period is actually giving me space to grow as an artist without the pressure of constant sales.

I'm connecting with other artists. We're all navigating this together. The conversations I'm having with fellow painters right now—about markets, pricing, staying motivated—are some of the most valuable I've ever had.

For Anyone Considering Buying Art Right Now

I know times are tight. I'm not going to tell you that buying a painting should be your priority when you're worried about interest rates or job security.

But if you've been thinking about it—if you've been following my work or any other artist's work and something speaks to you—I will say this:

Original art is one of the few things that actually gains meaning over time. Unlike most purchases that depreciate the moment you take them home, a painting becomes part of your story. You remember when you bought it, why you bought it, what was happening in your life at that time.

Years from now, when things have settled (because they always do), you'll look at that painting and remember not just the beauty of the piece itself, but the moment you chose to invest in something meaningful during uncertain times.

That's worth something.

Beauty as an Act of Resistance

There's this quote I keep coming back to—I'm paraphrasing here—but it's something like: "In dark times, creating beauty is an act of resistance."

I think about that when I'm mixing colours, when I'm trying to capture that exact shade of pink-orange that happens for maybe ten minutes at sunset. When I'm working on a sky that glows.

It's not solving the big problems. It's not stopping wars or fixing economies.

But it's refusing to let those things take up all the space. It's insisting that beauty and creativity and moments of peace still have value. Still matter. Still deserve our attention.

What Comes Next

I don't know when the art market will fully recover. I don't know when people will feel confident spending on non-essentials again. Nobody does.

But I do know I'll keep painting. These skies, these trees, these fleeting moments of light that make living in Australia such a privilege.

And I'll be here—in my Perth studio, working on this new series—when you're ready.

Because the world might be uncertain, but the light still breaks through the trees every morning. The sky still turns those impossible colours at dusk. And that's worth capturing. That's worth sharing.

That's worth painting through the uncertainty for.

Current Work: I'm accepting inquiries for paintings from my new "Lingering Light" series. These smaller, more intimate landscapes focus on Australian skies during golden hour—those early morning and evening moments when colour saturates everything. If you'd like to see works in progress or be notified when new pieces are complete, join the Canvas Club via the form on my homepage.

Stay Connected: Follow my painting process on Instagram or Facebook, where I share studio updates, works in progress, and the occasional behind-the-scenes look at life as an artist in Perth.