Artists spend decades learning how to really see the world, but somewhere along the way we forget to notice the body carrying us through it.
When you’re young, you can hunch over a drawing table for ten hours, survive on coffee, and somehow bounce back after sleeping in a chair that 's covered in paint and is missing an arm. But time has a polite way of tapping you on the shoulder and saying, “Hey, I love this, maybe we shouldn’t do this forever.”
The older I get, the more I realize that making art is not just about protecting creativity. It’s about protecting the machine that allows creativity to happen in the first place.
Aging as an artist becomes less about dramatic reinvention and more about maintenance. Tiny habits. Quiet adjustments. The kind of things that sound boring until your neck locks up halfway through a painting.
One of the best things I’ve started doing is setting little reminders throughout the day. Every thirty minutes, I stop and do eye yoga for a minute or two. Nothing glamorous. Just looking into the distance, moving the eyes side to side, focusing near and far, blinking intentionally like a human being instead of a cave raccoon staring into a glowing screen. It sounds silly until you realize how much tension we store in our eyes after years of staring at tiny details.
Then there’s the standing up part. Artists are world-class statues. We freeze ourselves into strange positions and somehow convince ourselves we’re comfortable. A simple alarm reminding you to stand, stretch your shoulders, roll your neck around, and drink water can honestly change your whole day. The body loves movement, even tiny bits of it. Especially tiny bits of it.
Posture becomes its own lifelong conversation too. Slouching sneaks up on creative people because we spend so much time leaning toward the work, almost trying to crawl inside it. But after enough years, your back starts filing formal complaints. I catch myself now pulling my shoulders back and sitting up straighter several times a day. Not perfectly. Nobody suddenly transforms into a ballet instructor overnight. But awareness matters.
A don't forget your lungs! Fresh air in a studio space, especially for artists who spend long hours focused and still important. A room with good airflow can completely change the feeling of working—your mind stays clearer, your body feels less sluggish, and even your ability to focus and problem solve improves. Paint fumes, dust, mediums, fixatives, and even just stale indoor air can slowly wear on you over time without you realizing it. Opening windows when possible, stepping outside for a few breaths between sessions, and keeping a quality air purifier running nearby can make a studio feel healthier and more alive and if you can, add a few plants to increase the air quality.
What’s funny is that none of these things feel artistic when you’re doing them. Stretching isn’t romantic. Drinking water doesn’t feel creative. Eye exercises don’t exactly scream tortured artistic genius. But staying healthy long enough to keep making work you love? That might be the most important studio practice of all.
Because the goal isn’t just to make great art this year. The goal is to still be making art twenty years from now without sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies every time you stand up.
Longevity itself is part of the craft. Taking care of your body isn’t separate from the work. It is the work. Quietly, invisibly, every single day.
