Why I Don’t Explain My Art (And Why That Matters)

When people encounter an artwork, one of the first questions that often comes up is: “What does it mean?” It’s a natural impulse. We want to understand, decode, or connect with what we’re seeing. But lately, I’ve been wondering what happens when we stop trying to answer that question, and instead leave it open?

This isn’t a rhetorical stance. It’s something I live through my own work every day. As an artist, I often begin a piece with a single image, something that moves me without explanation. It might be a strange contrast in size, a surprising perspective, a color that just feels right, or simply an image that I find beautiful. That’s enough to get me started.

But from that moment on, the process takes on a life of its own. I build intuitively layering, adjusting, contradicting. And as I go, yes, stories start forming in my head. Narratives emerge. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking, “This could mean…” But I also know that those thoughts are just my current lens. Another day, another mood, and I might see it completely differently. So how much weight should I give my own interpretation?

Is Meaning Something the Artist Owns?

There’s a kind of romantic idea that the artist knows best. That we’re placing hidden messages into our work, waiting for the viewer to uncover them. But I’m not sure it’s always like that. In my case, a lot of meaning surfaces after the work is made. Sometimes it’s only when someone else reflects something back to me that I see the piece in a new way.

So who really “owns” the meaning of an artwork? Is it the person who created it, or the person standing in front of it?

I don’t think it’s either. I think it exists somewhere in between.

What If Interpretation Is Part of the Art Itself?

In my video work, for example, I intentionally remove audio. I want viewers to play their own music, whatever they’re drawn to. That one decision changes everything. The rhythm, the emotional tone, even the perceived message shifts completely depending on the sound someone chooses. Suddenly, the viewer becomes a co-creator. And no two people will ever experience the piece the same way, because no two lives are the same.

That kind of unpredictability fascinates me. It makes me ask: What happens to an artwork when the artist lets go of authorship? Can ambiguity be a feature, not a flaw?

And more importantly, why do we, as viewers, feel the need for clarity in the first place?

Interpretation As a Mirror

I’ve come to believe that interpretation says more about the viewer than the work itself. Our experiences, memories & cultural references shape how we “read” an image. We don’t see with neutral eyes. We bring our lives to what we’re looking at.

This idea becomes even more interesting when viewers project interpretations onto my work that I never intended. At first, it surprised me. Now I see it as a gift. It’s not about being “right” or “wrong.” It’s about what the work opens up in the person engaging with it.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting more deeply on this by looking back at my own art. I’ve started a kind of reverse-engineering process trying to understand why I choose certain elements over and over. I’m starting to suspect these decisions are not random. They’re subconscious patterns. The book The Hidden Order of Art touches on this—a reminder that we often don’t fully understand our own choices until much later, if ever.

So how much of what we create is actually a form of self-revelation we haven’t caught up with yet?

No Final Answers, Just More Questions

I don’t write this to offer a solution or to argue that “interpretation should always be free.” I think there are many ways to engage with art, some deeply personal, some highly conceptual, some rigid, some playful. But I do think there’s something beautiful about not rushing to define things.

When we let art breathe, when we allow ourselves to sit with ambiguity, we give space for something more complex to arise. Not just meaning, but multiple meanings. Not just understanding, but curiosity.

And maybe that’s the point.