Why Don’t We Feel Art Anymore? The Hollow Beauty of Perfect Images

I’ve been creating digital art for years. Not to chase trends, not to build a brand — but because I honestly wouldn’t know how else to live. This is my space of silence and chaos, my way of thinking and feeling. Sometimes I draw like I breathe. It’s not a job. It’s a reflex.

But something has been bothering me more and more lately. I open social media or online galleries, and I see hundreds — no, thousands — of “perfect” artworks. Perfect lighting, perfect anatomy, perfect compositions. You’d think we’re living in a golden age of visual beauty. And maybe we are. But then… why don’t I feel anything?

That’s the part that disturbs me.

It’s as if perfection has become a kind of aesthetic disease. We’re surrounded by it — and we’re slowly being numbed by it. Nothing cuts, nothing scratches. Everything’s so “well done” that it slips right past the heart.

The risk is real: we might fall so deeply in love with looking good, that we forget why we started creating in the first place.

Art isn’t a showroom. It’s not an audition. It’s not a contest of who renders skin or light more convincingly. At least, not for me. For me, art is a question thrown into the void. It’s the visual version of “I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I need to get it out.” And that’s not something you can plan or polish. That’s something you live.

That’s why I’m genuinely happy — almost moved — when I stumble upon a piece that’s raw. Maybe the proportions are a little off. Maybe the shading is shaky. Maybe it looks like it was made too fast, too impulsively. But you know what? It breathes. It’s alive. It says something. It’s not trying to be perfect. It’s just trying to be.

And in today’s sea of flawless digital art, that’s rare. And precious.

We’ve become so good at making things look good, that we’ve started copying the look of emotion instead of chasing the real thing. But the truth is, there’s no plugin for sincerity. No brush pack for truth. You either put yourself in the work or you don’t.

I’m not against technology. I’m not one of those “it was better before” people. I love what digital tools allow us to do. But I also believe we’re at a crossroads. We either remember we’re the ones holding the stylus, or we’ll just become part of the software.

Perfection is seductive. It’s easy to get lost in it. To keep refining until nothing is wrong — and nothing is real anymore.

So I remind myself, every day: it’s okay to leave things unfinished. It’s okay to mess up a line. It’s okay to draw something that’s not portfolio-worthy, but soul-worthy.

Because honestly, some of the most unforgettable artworks I’ve seen were full of “mistakes.” But they had soul. They were clumsy, but they were true. And in a world chasing flawless pixels, I’ll always choose a flawed truth.

I’m an artist, and I want to keep being one. Not a designer of shells, but a maker of messages. Not a technician, but a translator of feeling.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s the only perfection worth chasing.