Who Decides You’re an Artist?

There’s a moment when someone realizes they’re allowed to call themselves an artist.

Some of us remember the exact day—the moment, the conversation. An inspiring teacher. A parent. A client. Others don’t remember the precise origin, but they remember the feeling—being seen, dismissed, encouraged, or ignored. It lingers longer than the work itself.

This year, working within the Westfield Art Association, I led the creation of Artist Unfiltered—a first collaboration with Art Cafe, and the beginning of an ongoing series.

Not the polished version. Not the resume. The origin.

In a coffee shop, over 30 people sat down and said things they don’t usually say out loud. Not because it was formal—but because it wasn’t.

Some were called artists too early.

Some spent years resisting it.

Some are still negotiating with the word.

What interested me wasn’t the medium. It was permission.

I’ve always been drawn to what gets overlooked—discarded objects, forgotten materials, things passed over without a second glance. The title “artist” follows a similar pattern. It’s handed out unevenly, withheld arbitrarily, and often internalized last.

That night wasn’t about defining it.

It was about removing the distance between the work and the person making it.

The room didn’t make anyone an artist.

It just made it harder to pretend they weren’t.