At some point I stumbled across Adolf Hitler’s paintings online. Not in a history book. Just… there. Watercolours. Buildings. Streets. Quiet scenes.
The uncomfortable question followed immediately:
All wrongdoings aside — purely as a painter — was he any good?
The honest answer surprised me.
Yes. He was good.
Technically competent. Solid perspective. Careful execution. His paintings are tidy, calm, and often pleasing. Certainly better than most amateurs. Enough to make you pause before dismissing them…
… and yet — that’s where it ends.
Not bad.
Not great.
Just… good.
Which raised a far more interesting question: why does “good” sometimes fail to become art?
Digging into it, a pattern emerged. His work followed the rules faithfully. Composition made sense. Colours behaved. Nothing jarred. Nothing risked. Everything resolved neatly.
And that neatness was the problem.
Take Gustav Klimt’s Lady with a Fan for example, from roughly the same period. By traditional standards, it refuses to resolve: the background overwhelms the figure, depth never quite settles, and the composition holds the viewer in a quiet imbalance. Klimt wasn’t chasing better structure or cleaner form — he was after something truer, something correctness alone couldn’t express.
Or take Isaac Levitan’s Over Eternal Peace (1894). Technically assured and outwardly calm, the painting nevertheless feels vast and unsettling. The sky presses down on the land, overwhelming it without drama; the landscape recedes into near silence. Human presence is reduced to a small church and a scattering of grave crosses on a hill — not symbols clamoring for meaning, but subdued markers against eternity. Nothing is exaggerated, nothing calls for attention, and yet the emotional weight is undeniable. It is not painted to impress, but to state a condition — not better painted, but truer.
That contrast led me down a rabbit hole that eventually left me with a realisation:
Beginners obey the rules inconsistently. Masters break them consistently.
The difference isn’t skill. It’s intention.
A beginner makes things “wrong” by accident — perspective slips, colours clash unintentionally, composition collapses. The work feels uncertain because it is uncertain.
A master does something else entirely. They know exactly what “right” would look like — and deliberately choose not to do it. Not randomly. Not sloppily. But with consistency, calm, and commitment.
I realised this listening to a performance of Für Elise by Lang Lang. Everything about it felt “wrong” by traditional standards. Rubato stretched to the edge. Sentiment pushed far beyond classical restraint. And yet — it worked. Beautifully.
Why? Because nothing was accidental. He wasn’t failing to follow the rules. He was choosing a different set — and then obeying those perfectly.
That’s the leap many skilled people never make — the one that separates “very good” work from art that lasts.
Real art isn’t about piling on technique or polishing detail endlessly. It’s about the moment an artist stops asking, “Does this work?” and starts asking,
“What happens if I let this feel slightly wrong — on purpose?”
That question is dangerous. It removes the safety net of correctness. You can’t hide behind skill anymore. What it asks for is permission — not from critics or audiences, but from yourself — to stop polishing, stop seeking approval, and commit to a choice.
And that, it turns out, is where actual art begins.
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