What Teaching Art Has Taught Me About Being an Artist

I always knew I wanted to teach and have a studio practice. The two paths felt connected for me early on…not separate roles, but different parts of the same conversation. I didn’t see teaching as something that would take me away from making art. I saw it as a way to stay close to it: to keep the questions alive, to stay engaged, and to build a life where art was always part of the day-to-day. Over time, though, what I didn’t expect was just how much teaching would shape my work. Not just in terms of time or structure, but in how I think, how I see, and how I create.

So today I wanted to talk about what I’ve learned from being a professor that’s helped me become a better, more aware, more grounded artist. Because the overlap is real. The roles bleed into each other. The classroom, the studio, the hallway conversations, the critiques—they’ve all become part of one larger feedback loop. I’m not the same artist I was before I started teaching. And honestly, I’m glad. I needed this version of myself.

Let’s get into it!

You Have to Be Able to Say What You’re Doing

One of the first things I realized when I started teaching is that you can’t just do the thing. You have to explain the thing. You can’t just make a composition that works...you need to be able to say why it works. And that’s not always easy when your own work is more intuitive or abstract, like mine often is. But it forced me to slow down and really look at my own process. Not just go with the flow, but figure out what’s under the surface.

That skill—the ability to describe what you’re doing—is surprisingly useful when it comes to writing artist statements, talking to curators or collectors, or even just figuring out what your next move is. Teaching trained me to pay attention to what I was actually doing, not just what I thought I was doing. And over time, that made me more confident in how I talk about my work.

If you’ve never tried describing your process out loud, I highly recommend it. Not in fancy language, but in plain, clear terms. Try walking someone through what you made and why you made it. You don’t need an audience. Just hearing it out loud can reveal a lot.

The Basics Still Matter

It’s funny how often I’ve had to relearn the foundations. Composition. Contrast. Color balance. Line quality. I teach these things all the time, and yet I still catch myself slipping when I’m deep in a piece and things aren’t quite working. I’ll be standing over a canvas thinking, “Why does this feel off?” and then I remember...oh yeah...you didn’t anchor the composition. Or you ignored the edge relationships. Or you got carried away with a texture and forgot about hierarchy.

There’s something about having to teach these principles over and over that reminds me just how essential they are. It’s easy to think that once you’ve reached a certain level in your practice, you don’t need to think about the fundamentals anymore. But that’s not true. The basics are where the magic still happens. They’re what keep the work grounded, even when you’re experimenting or pushing boundaries.

If you’re in a rut, or a piece just won’t come together, go back to your basics. Not in a rigid way, but in a “let me check in on my structure” kind of way. It’s not about doing it right. It’s about making sure you haven’t lost the thread.

Students Are Often Braver Than We Are

One of the best things about working with students—especially beginners—is that they don’t have the same hang-ups about “getting it right.” Not always, anyway. They might not know the rules yet, which means they’re more willing to break them. They’ll put red next to green just because they like it. They’ll mix mediums without worrying about how it will be received. They’ll make weird choices that actually kind of work, and then shrug when I ask them about it.

Watching that kind of freedom has reminded me to take more risks in my own practice. There are plenty of times I’ve looked at a student’s work and thought, “I wouldn’t have thought to try that,” and then gone home and tried something similar. Not to copy, but to stretch a little. To get outside my own formula.

I think sometimes we get stuck in our own methods. We get too careful. Too practiced. Teaching helps shake that up. It keeps me from becoming too precious with my work.

So if you’ve been making the same kinds of choices over and over, maybe ask yourself...what would a beginner do here? What would you do if you didn’t know the rules?

Time Isn’t Everything… But It Really, Really Matters

Here’s the thing about teaching: it takes up a lot of time. There are emails, grading, meetings, planning, more emails, more grading. I’ve had semesters where I barely touched my own work until the break. It’s frustrating, for sure. But here’s the other side of it—it forced me to be really intentional with the time I do have.

When you only get short windows to make your work, you learn how to show up quickly. You learn to set small, realistic goals. You learn to make progress in bits and pieces. You stop waiting for the perfect stretch of studio time and just work with what’s available.

And weirdly enough, sometimes that creates better work. Because you’re not overthinking it. You’re just doing it.

So if you’re juggling a day job or other responsibilities and you feel like you’re falling behind, I see you. But don’t write off those tiny sessions. They add up. Sometimes a ten-minute sketch can open a door that leads to your next big series.

Critique Is a Practice

This is a big one. Teaching has taught me how to critique without tearing down. It’s easy to point out what’s wrong in a piece...but it’s harder (and more useful) to point out what’s working and how to build on it.

Learning to give feedback has made me better at receiving it. And not just in class settings. It’s made me better at evaluating my own work. Instead of just asking, “Is this good or bad?” I’ve learned to ask more useful questions. What’s the strongest part of this piece? Where does the energy fall flat? Is this doing what I want it to do?

You don’t need to be in a classroom to apply this. Try giving your own work a critique, but do it the way you’d speak to a peer or a student. Be honest but constructive. Name the strengths. Be curious about what’s not working instead of just frustrated. It’s a game changer.

Everyone’s on a Different Timeline

One thing I see all the time in my students (and honestly in myself too) is the temptation to compare. You see someone else making huge leaps, getting into galleries, landing big projects, and you start to wonder if you’re behind. But teaching has shown me just how varied artistic paths can be. Some students find their voice right away. Others take a long time to get there. Some start strong and lose steam. Others build slowly and then take off. There is no one timeline.

That reminder has helped me give myself more grace. I’ve had seasons where everything flows and seasons where I feel stuck. Watching students grow in all kinds of directions reminds me that none of us are doing this on the same schedule. There’s no rush. There’s just the work.

If you need a reminder today...you’re not behind. You’re just on your own timeline.

Teaching Keeps Me Curious

There are so many times when a student question has sent me down a rabbit hole I never expected. Like someone asking about an artist I hadn’t looked at in years. Or a software question I didn’t know the answer to that led me to a totally new tool. Or a critique that brought up a concept I hadn’t thought about since grad school.

Teaching has kept me from going stale. It forces me to keep learning. It reminds me that I don’t know everything, and that’s okay. I’m not supposed to be the ultimate authority. I’m supposed to be in the mix, learning alongside the students. That curiosity spills over into my own work. It keeps things moving.

So even if you’re not teaching, how can you build that curiosity into your practice? Can you learn something new each week? Can you explore a new material or technique every few months? Keep asking questions. That’s where the energy is.

Boundaries Are Part of the Practice

This one took me a while. Teaching can be all-consuming if you let it. It can take over your weekends, your evenings, your brain. And for a while, I let it. I thought I had to do everything. Be everything. Answer every email immediately. Say yes to every opportunity.

But over time, I’ve realized that in order to be a good teacher and a working artist, I have to set limits. I have to protect my studio time. I have to carve out hours that are just for me and not feel guilty about it. It’s not selfish…it’s necessary.

If you’re in a teaching or caregiving role, I hope you hear this. You can’t pour into others if you’re running on empty. Your own creative time matters. Set boundaries where you can. Hold that space.

Art Isn’t Always About the Outcome

One of the most powerful things I’ve seen in the classroom is how much joy can come from the process, even when the final result is clunky or incomplete. I’ve had students light up over a single brushstroke that felt right. Or get excited about a new material, even if the piece didn’t turn out how they wanted. That joy...that presence in the process...is something I’ve tried to reclaim in my own practice.

It’s easy to get caught up in results. Is this piece finished? Will it sell? Does it fit my brand? But teaching reminds me that sometimes it’s enough just to show up and make something. That’s the whole point.

If your work feels heavy or pressured lately, maybe try letting go of the outcome. Make something just to see what happens. No expectations. No pressure. Just curiosity.

Closing Thoughts

Teaching art hasn’t made me any less of an artist. It’s made me more of one. It’s forced me to look closely, think critically, take risks, stay curious, and show up even when things don’t go as planned. It’s reminded me that we’re all still figuring it out...that growth doesn’t stop once you leave school...that art is about connection, not perfection.

And yeah, some days I’m tired. Some days the emails pile up and the grading feels endless and my own work sits untouched. But even then, I can usually trace something back—a conversation, a question, a critique—that’s shaped the way I see things. And that’s worth it.

So, to all of you who teach...whether it’s in a classroom, a workshop, a community center, or informally with peers...I see you. And to those of you who are thinking about teaching someday, I’ll say this: it won’t take you away from your art. If anything, it might just bring you back to it in ways you didn’t expect.

What have you learned from teaching—or being taught—that’s stayed with you in your own practice? I’d love to hear. Let’s keep the conversation going.