What gets noticed more?

Sometimes I look at the art world today and wonder, "what actually gets noticed anymore?"

So often, I come across work that feels strange for the sake of being strange. Not strange as a natural outcome of exploration, but discomfort carefully engineered to demand attention. As if shock alone equals depth. As if making people uneasy automatically makes the work important.

Recently, I saw images from an exhibition at a very well-known gallery. Instead of curiosity or wonder, what I felt was sadness. A heaviness that stayed with me. Part of that discomfort came from how little the work seemed to care about craft; about time, skill, or intention in the making. It felt like randomness elevated by dramatic explanations, heavy concepts, and wordy titles trying to force meaning into hurried gestures.

It made me wonder when explanation began to matter more than the work itself. When anything could be passed off as art, as long as the language around it sounded profound enough.

I know art does not have to be beautiful all the time. Artists respond to society, and the world we live in is complex, fractured, and often harsh. I respect art that documents pain, conflict, and discomfort. That has always been part of artistic expression.

But I can’t help asking, are we only noticing the darkness now? Has discomfort become the sole currency of seriousness? Is everything around us truly that bleak?

I refuse to believe that.

When I look at the artists who shaped art history, I see something else entirely. MF Husain, Amrita Sher-Gil, Raja Ravi Varma. Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, Klimt. Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera, Romare Bearden. Sculptors like Rodin, Brâncuși, Henry Moore, Ramkinkar Baij, Meera Mukherjee.They dealt with real human emotions like love, longing, identity, loneliness, revolution, grief. They did not shy away from pain or complexity. But through all of it, their work carried dignity. Humanity. Beauty. Even when their art confronted difficult truths, it uplifted.

Take Van Gogh. His life was marked by immense suffering, yet his art radiates light. His work is not an exhibition of pain. It is proof that pain does not need to be performed to be profound. That depth can exist alongside hope. That tragedy does not cancel beauty.

When I think about art in my own life, it feels similar to putting up family photographs. You choose what hangs on your walls because it becomes part of your everyday existence. You come home tired, burdened by the day, and those images soften you. They remind you of joy, warmth, and the quiet reasons to keep going.

Why would I want to surround myself with images that add to the weight?

My home should not numb me. It should hold me.

So when did shock value become the benchmark for meaningful art? When did disturbing become the default measure of depth?

When I make art, it brings me happiness. It brings me calm. And I want my viewers to feel that too. Not denial of reality but an acknowledgement that alongside struggle, there is tenderness. Alongside heaviness, there is play. Alongside chaos, there is still beauty. Even when I paint the weight of living, I want the light to remain visible. Because it does exist. Quietly. Persistently. Art does not need to scream to be important. It does not need to mirror the same shock-driven narratives that already flood our screens every day. That isn’t depth, it’s just noise repeating itself. For me, art is a counterpoint to that noise. A pause. A soft resistance. It is a reminder that gentleness is not weakness, that beauty is not frivolous, and that hope however fleeting or subjective, has meaning. That is the kind of art I choose to create. And I stand by it.