In my studio, paintings often live a quiet life, lying flat on tables, surrounded by brushes, color palettes, and the chaos of creative process. Unframed and unfinished, they feel more like possibilities than final pieces of art. Yet, I often catch myself imagining them differently: framed, hung on a wall, presented to the world. This visualization isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s a way of asking myself tough questions: Is this painting ready? Is it finished? Is it even good enough to be displayed?
The shift that happens when a painting moves from a piece of paper lying in the studio to a framed and hung artwork is transformative. A frame can elevate a piece, focusing attention on the details, defining the boundaries, and giving it an aura of importance. It says, “This is art. This is complete.” Choosing the right frame can be an almost magical process, one that brings harmony and balance or even a new layer of meaning to the work. Sometimes, it’s the frame that finally makes the painting feel whole.
Art history is full of debates about what makes something “art.” In the 20th century, artists like Marcel Duchamp challenged these boundaries, famously displaying a simple urinal as art and calling it Fountain. Andy Warhol later blurred the lines between commercial products and high art with his iconic soup cans. These artists made a powerful point: anything can be art if it’s displayed as art. And yet, even today, the question persists. The answer is never simple, and perhaps that’s the beauty of it.
In my opinion, art is the intention to be art, combined with the audience’s acceptance of it as such. Each time a painting of mine is framed and hung, it becomes part of that ongoing conversation, its value transformed not just by the frame, but by the context and shared recognition that define it as art.
