Creativity often appears when you stop forcing it.

In a culture that celebrates constant output, many artists feel pressured to always be making, posting, selling, and staying visible. But what happens when creativity no longer feels like a source of joy and starts feeling like another task on a never-ending to-do list?

My journey as a nomadic artist led me to question that pressure. Through travel, nature, and years of experimentation with natural pigments, I discovered a different relationship with creativity, one rooted not in productivity, but in presence.

When creativity becomes another deadline

A few years ago, I was living and working in Goa and Jaipur. Like many artists trying to establish themselves, I was juggling multiple responsibilities at once. I was connecting with galleries, participating in exhibitions, maintaining a full-time job, trying to grow my presence online, and doing everything I thought a serious artist was supposed to do (now I understand that being serious and being an artist can never go hand in hand).

From the outside, it looked productive. Inside, I felt increasingly disconnected from my creative practice. Making art was often the one thing that helped me stay grounded.

Yet the more I tried to fit creativity into a schedule, the more elusive it became.

Some days, I wanted nothing more than to paint, but work demanded my attention. Other days, I sat in front of a blank page, feeling guilty for not creating enough.

Around me, artists seemed to be producing endlessly. Social media rewards consistency. The art world celebrated visibility. Everyone appeared to be building a personal brand. Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I began asking myself a simple question: Was being an artist really about constantly producing art?

Lessons from the road

Travel didn't give me an immediate answer. Instead, it changed the pace at which I lived.

My travels began just after the pandemic. Since then, solitude has been my constant companion (by choice). For a long time, I had missed spending endless hours sitting in silence, somewhere deep in nature. So I went to the Parvati Valley in the Himalayas and stayed there for three months. It changed something in me.

After that, I never really stopped.

I wandered through Himalayan valleys and along the Goan coastline. I followed the Ganges in Haridwar and Rishikesh, and allowed myself to take a little risk while staying in Kashmir. I spent years in Rajasthan, walking through the beautiful architecture of Jaipur and Udaipur, and the ancient holy town of Pushkar.
Every place gave me a different experience, and every experience became a different kind of art. For a long time, I thought I was trying to express myself. But somewhere along the way, I realized it was never really about expression.

I am simply another medium through which my experiences find their way onto the canvas.

Once I understood that, I stopped trying to fit my work into a niche. And just for the sake of having a clear label on social media, I don't think I ever will. There is something deeply freeing about allowing your art to remain limitless.

I think that's a kind of bliss.

As I moved through different places, spent more time in nature, and stepped away from the constant pressure to perform, I noticed something unexpected. Many of my most creative ideas emerged when I wasn't actively trying to create anything.

They appeared during long walks. While observing a landscape. During conversations with strangers, and while sitting quietly with a notebook and no particular goal.

The farther I moved from the pressure to produce, the closer I felt to creativity itself.

Nature became one of my greatest teachers. It creates constantly, yet never appears rushed. A forest does not bloom overnight. A river does not hurry toward the sea. A flower does not compare itself to another flower.

Everything unfolds in its own time. Creativity, I realized, often works the same way.

What natural pigments taught me about patience

This lesson became even clearer through my work with natural pigments.

My interest in making sustainable art materials began with a simple experiment, more like a playful activity.

I started with coffee. Then spices. Then, there are vegetables, flowers, and countless other materials. Most of my early experiments failed. The colors were inconsistent. Some faded quickly. Others produced completely different results from what I expected.

Photo courtesy of Nikki Sharma

What I assumed would take a few weeks ended up taking more than a year of experimentation. Again and again, I found myself returning to the same lesson that nature does not reveal its secrets on demand.

It requires patience. Observation. Curiosity.

The process didn’t just teach me how to make paint. It taught me that creativity works not through force or urgency, but through attention.

Re-learning how to listen

Over time, these experiences shaped the workshops I now facilitate, named ‘Conscious Creativity’.

Many participants arrive carrying the same pressure I once carried. They believe creativity is something they have lost, or something they need to earn through effort. So we begin somewhere unexpected.

We begin by paying attention to the breath, heartbeat, and simple experience of being present. Only then do we move into intuitive art-making using natural pigments and creative exercises designed to encourage self-expression rather than perfection.
What I often witness is not people becoming creative. It is people remembering that they already are!

Photo courtesy of Nikki Sharma

A different definition of success

Today's artists face challenges that previous generations could never have imagined.

We are expected to be creators, marketers, entrepreneurs, photographers, videographers, and social media managers all at once. Making a living from art matters. Visibility matters. Sharing your work matters.

But when productivity becomes the measure of artistic worth, something important can get lost. Creativity is not a machine. It cannot be optimized indefinitely, needs space, rest, and experiences beyond the studio. But, most importantly, it needs trust.

Trust that living is part of the process.

Trust that periods of stillness are often preparing the ground for future work.

Creativity beyond production

The greatest lesson my nomadic life has taught me is that creativity is not something you manufacture. It is something you cultivate.

You don’t have to constantly produce art to be an artist. Some days, being an artist means painting. Other days, it means walking through a new place, observing the changing colors of a landscape, collecting inspiration, asking questions, or simply paying attention to the world around you.

Art begins in the way you notice, experience, and engage with life itself.
And sometimes, the most creative thing you can do is allow yourself the space to simply be.

auster

For years, I thought creativity was something I had to chase. But traveling as a nomadic artist taught me the opposite.

auster