“Is My Art Weird?” — A Loving Reflection from my Studio

The other day, a beautiful soul in one of my sessions looked down at her artwork and said with a half-laugh, “I think my art is kind of weird.”

She wasn’t wrong. But not in the way she imagined.

Her piece had layers of chaotic scribbles, a small triangle in the corner, and a wash of violet bleeding across the top edge. It didn’t look “finished.” It didn’t follow the rules. It didn’t sit inside the tidy frame of what art is supposed to look like.

And it was perfect.

Art Doesn’t Always Make Sense

The truth is, in art therapy—especially the kind we do in the studio—what you create might not always make immediate sense. It might feel confusing, or chaotic, or downright peculiar. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It means it’s real.

What makes that disordered swirl of lines or asymmetrical collage fragment so meaningful isn’t how it looks—it’s how it was felt during creation. The real magic happens in the quiet decisions: where you placed that jagged edge, why that color keeps showing up, the moment you tore something rather than trimmed it. These choices often come from places deep within, bypassing conscious thought. The body knows something; the emotions are speaking. That “weirdness” you see is often a coded expression of pain, play, desire, or release. It’s not decoration—it’s a declaration.

Over time, what felt puzzling might begin to make sense. Or maybe it won’t. That’s okay too. Some pieces were never meant to be understood with words—they’re meant to be held, witnessed, and respected. I’ve seen people cry over images they once dismissed. I’ve seen stories emerge from scribbles a year later. Healing isn’t linear and neither is art. So, if what you make feels weird, beautiful, ugly, or impossible to explain—know that it’s working. You showed up with your truth, and your truth showed up on the page.

Art Not for a Gallery

We’re not making art for a gallery. We’re making it for your nervous system, your subconscious, your inner child, your longing for safety or expression or play. Sometimes your hand knows before your mind does. Sometimes the shapes and colors are speaking in a language you haven’t translated yet.

And that mystery? That is the medicine.

That’s the beauty of intuitive artmaking—it honors the wisdom of what’s unspoken. When we create without agenda or outcome, we open a dialogue with the parts of ourselves that rarely get airtime. The process becomes a sanctuary where the nervous system can uncoil, where emotional truths can surface gently through torn paper or a messy paint stroke. In this space, we aren’t asked to explain ourselves. We’re invited to feel, to express, to embody what words might fail to capture. The page becomes a mirror—not of who we perform to be, but of who we truly are beneath all the roles.

And sometimes, it’s the mystery itself that allows healing to unfold. That image you don’t quite understand might be communicating directly to your subconscious, sowing seeds of self-compassion, of integration. By releasing the need to analyze or judge, we cultivate an atmosphere of curiosity and trust. It’s in that liminal space—where logic steps aside and intuition leads—that the real shifts begin. Art becomes medicine not because it’s perfect, but because it’s honest. And honesty, when met with kindness, is profoundly transformative.

Weird Art? You’re Not Alone

Art gets weird when it dares to speak in riddles, challenge norms, or reflect the surreal corners of the human psyche. Here are a few fascinating examples that show how “weird” can be wildly expressive:

Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights: Painted around 1505, this triptych is a fever dream of fantastical creatures, hybrid animals, and bizarre human behaviors. It’s like stepping into a medieval subconscious—equal parts disturbing and mesmerizing.
Francis Bacon’s Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953): Bacon distorted the original portrait into a screaming, ghostly figure trapped in a cage of brushstrokes. It’s unsettling, raw, and deeply psychological.
Avocado Pit Sculptures: One artist carved intricate faces and designs into avocado pits, turning food waste into hauntingly detailed mini sculptures.
Faceless Child-Animal Hybrids by Sabi van Hemert: These sculptures blend children’s bodies with animal features, evoking themes of vulnerability, innocence, and primal instinct. They’re strange, tender, and a little eerie.
Drawings by a Woman with Schizophrenia: She illustrated what she saw on her walls—images that were deeply personal, surreal, and emotionally charged. Her work offered a glimpse into her lived experience and helped others understand her reality.
Jean Fouquet’s Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim (1452): This depiction of the Virgin Mary is sensual and provocative, with exposed skin and surreal winged creatures. It shocked viewers in its time and still challenges expectations today.

These pieces weren’t made to be pretty—they were made to be felt. They remind us that art doesn’t have to be logical to be powerful. Want to explore how this kind of “weird” art shows up in therapeutic settings too? I’d love to dive into that with you.

My Art is Weird!

When someone says, “I think my art is weird,” what I hear is: “I’m surprised by what came out of me.” That’s a sacred moment. It means you didn’t edit yourself into invisibility. You let the process lead. You trusted the materials. That’s an act of courage.

When someone calls their art “weird,” they often mean it defies what they expected of themselves—it came from a place beneath the curated, conscious mind. In that moment of surprise, there’s a rupture in self-perception, like catching a glimpse of the inner wilderness usually kept under lock and key. That can feel raw, exposing, even unnerving. But it’s also a powerful signal that something real has surfaced. You didn’t shape it to be palatable or pretty. You allowed the materials to do what they needed. That kind of surrender isn’t passive—it’s brave. You stood in front of the page and said, “Show me.”

And the page responded. The charcoal smudge, the crooked line, the unsettling pattern—they’re evidence of your trust in the unknown. Art that veers off the expected path creates a kind of intimacy between creator and creation. You see parts of yourself that haven’t been socialized into silence. Weird art is never an accident—it’s an unveiling. It means your inner child, your somatic knowing, your aching questions were given permission to speak in colors and textures. And in a world that asks us to stay neat and understandable, that kind of expression is radical.

In Closing

So if your art looks weird… I celebrate that. Weird art knows something you don’t yet. Weird art isn’t trying to be pretty. It’s trying to be honest.

We can sit with the weirdness together. We can ask it questions, trace its patterns, find the rhythm in the chaos. And sometimes, we won’t find answers. That’s okay too. Mystery is a vital part of healing.

In our studio, weird means you’re doing it right.

With warmth, paint smudges, and reverence for your process,
Susan