Creating Art in Isolation: What We Learn from Solitude

There’s this strange thing that happens when the outside world quiets down. When the door shuts. When the phone stops buzzing. When the calendar clears. Sometimes it’s by choice, other times it’s not. But either way, if you’ve ever found yourself in that kind of space—alone with your art—you know it can bring a mix of relief and discomfort. It can be freeing, and it can also feel like your skin doesn’t quite fit right. That’s what I want to talk about today. The creative shifts that happen when we’re alone. Really alone.

A lot of my creative work has come out of quiet seasons. Times when I was pulled inward either because life slowed down or because I pulled the brake on purpose. Sometimes this was during winter breaks when my teaching schedule paused and I had nothing but time and a messy studio. Sometimes it was after hard life stuff. A big move. Grief. Exhaustion. Burnout. Or even just a need to get away from the noise of performing or explaining my work. That last one is big. If you’re always describing what you do, you start to feel like the words become louder than the making. Solitude helps recalibrate that.

Now before I go on, let me be really clear about something. Solitude is not always romantic. It’s not always peaceful. Sometimes it’s just weird and uncomfortable. Sometimes it brings up stuff you didn’t expect. Sometimes you go in thinking you’ll make a breakthrough and come out with nothing but a bunch of half-painted panels and an over-organized drawer of gel pens. That’s part of it. And honestly… that’s where the good stuff starts.

When the distractions are gone, what’s left?

For me, I start to notice the patterns in how I work. The ways I avoid certain materials. The instinct to play it safe with color. The little voice that says, “don’t mess that up” even when the piece already feels wrong. When there’s no one around to watch or comment, I start making different decisions. Sometimes bolder. Sometimes weirder. Sometimes more minimal. There’s space to hear myself more clearly. And sometimes what I hear surprises me.

One of the most helpful things I’ve learned is that solitude stretches your process. It slows things down in a way that’s annoying at first, but later ends up showing you where you were rushing. If you usually move fast through a piece, solitude forces you to sit with the layers. The drying time. The awkward middle. The part where nothing looks right. It teaches you how to keep going without feedback. Without likes. Without praise or even critique. That’s a skill. A real one.

If you’ve never given yourself a full stretch of working time alone—without social media, without texts, without even planning to show what you’re making—I’d encourage you to try it. Even for a day. Just to see what happens. Start by noticing how you feel when no one else is around to witness your work. That tells you a lot. Not in a judgmental way. Just in a learning way. Some of the most revealing things I’ve learned about my work happened in silence.

Let’s talk logistics though, because I know you might be reading this and thinking, “That sounds great, but I don’t have a cabin in the woods or weeks of free time.” I hear you. You don’t need that. You can build creative solitude in small ways. For example…

One thing that’s helped me is setting up intentional “no-output” time in my studio. This is when I’m not making for a deadline, a shop update, a post, or anything outside of myself. I turn off my phone. I even cover the screen of my laptop with a cloth so I’m not tempted. It’s a little ritual, but it works. I treat it like creative wandering time. No goals. No pressure. Sometimes it results in finished work. Sometimes it doesn’t. That’s not the point. The point is to spend time making without outside input.

Another trick I use is keeping a visual journal during these quiet periods. Not a sketchbook I feel like I need to show. Just a space for recording what comes up. I include doodles, color swatches, test patches, failed ideas, paint transfers, written fragments. It’s messy and personal. And that helps me see the undercurrent of where my ideas are trying to go. I often find clues in those pages that later shape my larger work.

I also like to set a timer to limit decision-making fatigue. I’ll give myself an hour to just try something without fixing it. That helps get me out of my overthinking loop. If it goes somewhere interesting, I keep going. If it doesn’t, I leave it and walk away. Isolation sometimes opens the door for second-guessing, and timed work helps fight that tendency.

Another thing that might surprise you: I talk to myself a lot more when I work in solitude. Not in a full-blown conversation kind of way, but I’ll say things out loud like “what if I put this color here” or “nope, that didn’t work.” I didn’t notice I did that until I had a few longer isolated work sessions. Turns out that speaking those ideas out loud actually helps me make decisions faster. Might feel silly at first but it’s worth a shot.

Now, the flip side of all this is that too much solitude can make you spiral a little. Especially if you’re in your head a lot already. That’s where a rhythm comes in. I’ve found that alternating periods of isolation with periods of connection keeps things healthier. Too much input and I feel scattered. Too much solitude and I start questioning everything. So when I come out of a stretch of solo work, I try to reconnect with other artists in casual, low-stakes ways. A text. A group chat. A photo of what I made with no caption, just a “what do you think?” Those connections help re-ground me.

And maybe that’s part of what solitude is supposed to do. It takes you apart a bit so you can see what you’re made of. Then you bring those parts back into your creative community more clearly. There’s a quiet confidence that comes from working alone. A knowing. Even if no one else gets what you just made. You get it. You saw it through. You stayed with it. That’s worth something.

So if you’re in a stretch of isolation right now—whether you planned it or it just happened—I hope you’ll use this time to notice your patterns. To get honest about what’s working and what’s not. To try something without asking if it’s good. To wander a bit in your materials. And to see what creative solitude might teach you.

Before I go, here are a few ways to work with solitude in your own practice that you can try anytime:

• Try a week of no-output sessions. Make without sharing anything. Let it just be for you.

• Set a timer and create for a set time without stopping or correcting.

• Keep a separate studio journal just for your isolated work periods.

• Block out a few hours where your phone is off and there are no expectations.

• Do a creative “fast” from external inspiration sources for a few days. No Pinterest. No Instagram. Just you and your tools.

• Start something you know you won’t finish. Let it be unfinished on purpose. See what that stirs up.

Solitude isn’t the answer to everything. But it can be a powerful mirror. It reflects what’s working and what’s missing. It gives your inner voice a little more room. And sometimes… that’s exactly what we need to hear.

What’s your experience with solitude in your art practice? I’d love to know what you’ve learned about yourself when things get quiet.