Who Gets to Call Themselves an Artist?

A friend was telling me about a conversation he’d had with his friend, who’s a full time artist. This friend is kind and decent, but our views sometimes bump against each other rather than flow. It is this mismatch that reminds me of the feminist lens I apply to my perspective. “My friend says his studio building is full of people who call themselves artists but aren’t” he said with great conviction. “Apparently they’re never there. They must just be rich and come in occasionally, and tell everyone they’re an artist.” I was shocked with the conviction with which he and his friend had decided who was and wasn’t a verified artist based on how frequently they painted in a space outside their home.

Perhaps they had caring responsibilities, or another job, or a few other jobs all at once in order to pay the bills and sustain their artistic practice. I do many things, working as a marketing consultant, running a creative facilitation organisation, and being the primary carer for my two young girls, and do all this alongside my artistic practice. My life is fuller because of it, and the variety suits me well. If I had a studio space I would probably inhabit it on a very part time basis, as my artistic practice takes place in the windows of times I find working from home or whilst my baby naps and my eldest daughter paints alongside me or watches The Octonauts, her favourite show. So by their definition, I would be ‘someone who just calls myself an artist’ with my time away from the studio presumed to be spent on fripperies or just not putting the effort in.

Through the window, July 2026. Oil pastels on kraft paper

I’ll leave you to form your own take on that, but at first it made me feel small and confined. As a woman and a mother returning to self-employment and balancing caring responsibilities, I already feel the weight of societal expectations, financial responsibilities and my own personal ambitions. To hear that others are openly categorising who should and shouldn’t really stung. But then it spurred me on. Each time I picked up the paintbrush, created a piece of artwork and put it away in my cupboard felt like a rebellion. I was not defining myself as an artist, I was an artist.

Artist is not a protected term. One can be many things, and an artist. Indeed, it is perspective that makes art sing and connect. Art is not the preserve of those who would position themselves as gatekeepers, as the rich patrons once did with the old masters. It is for all of us. The only barrier to entry is picking up a pencil, paintbrush or pastel and starting to feel.

And this conversation my friend and his friend had, about who was slacking off? They had it in the middle of the day, playing sport, presumably slacking off from whatever else it was that they should be doing.