But is that really ethical? … Is it?

I didn’t expect the comment to land the way it did.

“But is that really ethical? … Is it?”

It wasn’t just the question. It was the look that came with it—sideways, certain, already decided. The kind of look that leaves no room for explanation.

This came from a neighbour. Someone I had shared meals with. Someone I thought understood me, at least a little.

We were catching up after not seeing each other for a while, and I mentioned that I was working on a commissioned piece. I explained my process—how I was referring back to photos of a previous painting I had made a couple of years ago. That painting had been layered, nuanced, different from my earlier work. I had been coming out of a portrait class at the time, and it shifted how I handled colour. Softer, more built up, more deliberate.

I wanted to remember how I got there.

So yes, I was looking at my own past work. My own documentation. My own process.

And somehow, in her eyes, that crossed a line.

Her words settled heavily. Not loudly, not dramatically—but deeply. I felt myself shrink in that moment, as if I had been caught doing something dishonest. As if all the years of work, exploration, and commitment could be reduced to a kind of shortcut.

It’s a strange thing, how quickly that feeling can take hold.

I know what I do. I know the hours, the uncertainty, the way a painting can resist me for days before it begins to open up. I know that working in a series is a natural part of being an artist. That revisiting ideas is how they evolve. That no two paintings—even when related—are ever truly the same.

And still, for a moment, I questioned myself.

That’s the fragile part.

There’s also another part of me—the steadier one—that came in shortly after. The one that reminded me that artists have always revisited their work. That using references, even our own, is not only valid, but often necessary. That a commission carries its own responsibility: to listen, to respond, to create something meaningful for someone else.

And, more simply, that I am allowed to work in the way that works for me.

I didn’t say any of that out loud.

Instead, I smiled. 

I kept things light. I let the conversation drift somewhere else. It felt easier in the moment than trying to gather my thoughts while something inside me was still stinging.

But the conversation didn’t end there—not really. It followed me back into the studio. It lingered while I worked. I replayed it, reshaped it, imagined better responses. The kind that arrive too late to be useful.

I wondered why it affected me so much. Why a single comment could settle in so deeply.

Maybe it’s because making art requires a certain openness. A willingness to not have all the answers. To try things that might not work. To keep going anyway.

That openness doesn’t close off when we step away from the canvas.

So when something sharp comes in, it doesn’t just bounce off.

It lands.

I don’t think the answer is to harden ourselves completely. That would change the work, too. But I am starting to think that part of being an artist is learning how to hold both things at once: the openness that allows the work to grow, and the steadiness that keeps outside voices from defining it.

Maybe it’s also about recognizing that not every opinion needs to be carried.

Some can be set down.

Some can be left where they were spoken.

I’m still working that out.

For now, I’m back in the studio, continuing the painting. Layer by layer, the way I know how.

And that feels like enough.