The Questions Artists Quietly Ask

Does my art matter? What's the point? Who really cares whether I live a creative life or not? Perhaps you have asked yourself these questions too. What does it mean to be an artist in a world that feels fractured, war-torn, and uncertain? In moments of despair, creativity can seem fragile—almost irrelevant—against the enormity of suffering around us.

Two and a half years ago, after a cycling accident landed me in hospital, I found myself wrestling with exactly these questions.

A Valley I Never Expected

I wish I could say that I sailed gracefully through the experience. That after my back surgery at the end of 2023, I spent my days sketching the beautiful bouquets of flowers that arrived at my bedside, filling the pages of my journal with colour and gratitude. But the truth is, it became one of the darkest valleys I have ever walked through. There were moments when the weight of pain and uncertainty felt overwhelming—so much so that I found myself despairing even of life itself. It was not a season of effortless creativity or inspiration. It was simply a season of surviving.

When Memory Returns

A few days ago, my husband Reuben was rushed to hospital after his own cycling accident during the Cape Cycle Tour and was immediately taken into surgery. As I arrived at the hospital and sat in the waiting room, a flood of memories rushed back with startling clarity.

Hospitals have a way of awakening the senses—the antiseptic smell, the quiet urgency in the corridors, the suspended time of waiting. And as I sat there waiting for Reuben to be wheeled out of theatre, I found myself reflecting once again on that same question:

Does art really matter?

The Quiet Power of Beauty

I began remembering the many small moments of beauty that had sustained me during my own hospital stay. To the photographer whose breathtaking landscape image hung on the wall of that first consultation room—thank you. Your photograph distracted me from the pain and fear long enough for my breathing to steady. To the artist whose sweeping botanical mural stretched across the walls of the X-ray department—thank you. Every time I was wheeled past it in a hospital bed or wheelchair, its colour and vitality greeted me with warmth and quiet optimism.
To the landscaper who planted trees outside my hospital ward window—thank you. Each dawn, the birdsong filtering through their branches reminded me that God's mercies are new every morning. To every friend who brought flowers to brighten my bedside table—thank you. Their beauty spoke hope when words often failed. And to the many nurses and doctors who paused long enough to notice those flowers, to comment on them, to share in their loveliness—thank you.

In those moments, surrounded by uncertainty and pain, the presence of beauty mattered more than I could ever have imagined.

A Reminder While Waiting

Sitting in that waiting room in the Constantiaberg Mediclinic last Sunday, the day of the Cape Cycle Tour, with nothing to distract me except the magnificent photograph stretched across the wall, I felt the truth return with fresh clarity.

Beauty matters.

When the world feels broken and joy feels distant, even a single image—a photograph, a painting, a flower—can lift our gaze. It can remind us that there is still goodness here. Still wonder. Still hope. Art does not erase suffering, but it whispers quietly alongside it: Look up.

The Risk and the Calling

As artists, we take a risk every day. We risk rejection for the sake of connection. We offer something deeply personal to the world without knowing how it will be received. And yet I believe that artists are called to something profoundly important: to become architects of hope. In a world that often feels overwhelmed by despair, artists gently resist that darkness by creating beauty, meaning, and connection.

And that is why my art and your art (even if it's simply the way you style your hair or set your table for a meal), matters!