The Art World Makes People Feel Small and Stupid (Even Me)
The art world? It can feel like a mean girls’ lunch table.
All curated silence, pretentious bios, and the unspoken rule that if you don’t “get it,” you don’t belong.
Even as a professional contemporary Canadian artist, I’ve felt it.
Especially walking into certain galleries—the ones with clean white walls, no music, and that one person behind the desk who won’t even look up from their laptop.
You try to be polite, take it in, maybe even ask a question…
and instantly regret it.
Because somehow, the way they look at you makes you feel like you’ve missed a secret seminar.
Like you’re supposed to know why a red dot on a blank canvas costs $14,000.
Like your opinion doesn’t count unless you’ve memorized a list of dead men and their mediums.
And if they ask what you do?
I swear to god, I tense up every time.
“I’m an artist,” I’ll say.
And then I wait for the judgment, or worse—the pity.
Because suddenly, it’s like I have to prove I’m legit.
Do I drop where I went to art school? Mention exhibitions? Ramble off some tortured metaphor about feminine resilience and temporal spatiality?
((Side note: Yeah, I threw in temporal spatiality just to mess with artspeak a little. It’s a real term that basically means ‘time and space’—but sounds like it’s trying to get tenure. Because let’s be honest, that kind of language is exactly what makes people feel like art isn’t for them. And that’s exactly what we’re burning down here.))
Or can I just say:
I paint bold, emotional, empowered figurative art for women who don’t apologize anymore.
That should be enough.
But the art world doesn’t always make space for enough.
It makes space for intellectual gymnastics. For bios written in academic code. For opinions stamped with approval by people who haven’t sold a painting in years or ever.
I used to think maybe it was just me.
That maybe I didn’t belong in those spaces because I didn’t talk like that.
I didn’t write like that.
I didn’t want to play the game.
But here’s the truth: I’m not alone.
And if you’ve ever walked into a gallery and felt like the dumbest person in the room— You’re not.
You don’t need a degree to know what you love.
You don’t need to explain your taste.
You don’t have to justify why something made you pause.
If you feel something—it’s working.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Including me.
You’re allowed to collect art because it hits you in the chest.
Because it reminds you of a version of yourself that you fought like hell to become.
Because you want your walls to feel like you—not like a catalogue spread or a gallery’s approval stamp.
This is where we burn down the rulebook and hang what we love.
Not to feel smart.
But to feel seen.
I don’t create art for critics.
I create it for women who’ve outgrown being told what to do by people who don’t matter. The ones who are finally curating their space to reflect the truth of who they are—not who they were taught to be.
You’re not here to impress strangers.
You’re not here to explain your taste to your in-laws.
You’re here to reclaim space.
That’s what my work is for.
It’s not a trend.
It’s not decorative.
It’s not pretending to be anything it’s not.
It’s bold.
Emotional.
A little irreverent.
And completely unapologetic.
Just like the women who buy it.
PS – Yes, Cherry Bomb Studio is real.
My studio is tucked away in South Glengarry, Ontario—appointment-only and filled with good music, strong coffee, and zero snobbery.
I don’t do cold, white cubes, I do bright pink, a little loud, and very much alive.
If you’re curious, come see for yourself.
So if you’re here because you’re done waiting to be picked…
If you’re ready to buy art because it stirs you, not because it “matches…”
If you want work made by a real person, not a machine or a status game—then welcome.
This is Art Without Apology. And it’s for us.
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