Let’s start with a fact: your brain is lazy. It doesn’t want to work harder than it has to, which is why monochromatic works hit differently. A clean, stripped-down aesthetic is like a vacation for your overworked mind. You might think all those empty spaces and single-color canvases are boring, but to your brain, they’re a spa day.

Let’s talk about monochrome art—the one-color canvases that, despite their simplicity, have sparked endless fascination and debate. This wasn’t just a stylistic experiment; it was a rebellion. These were artists tearing up centuries of tradition and creating something stripped down to the bone. And somehow, they made it stick.

Jeff Kellar is the kind of artist who makes you think twice about what you’re actually looking at. His work doesn’t shout for attention—but it doesn’t need to. It’s quietly confident, existing in a realm where less is more, but never less interesting. And if you know me, you know I’m a sucker for nuance. Jeff’s work is all about surfaces, depth, and the magic of simplicity. He builds layer upon layer, sanding and buffing each one until he achieves his vision. The result? Objects that are both incredibly precise and deeply human, as if they’re holding secrets they won’t easily reveal.

Composition makes art work. It’s the reason your eyes instinctively know where to go first and why everything in a painting feels like it belongs, even when the surface seems chaotic. Without composition, art would collapse into a confusing mess—a pile of competing elements vying for your attention. With it, everything clicks into place, leaving you with that deeply satisfying sense that the artist knew exactly what they were doing.

Flowers have been a central subject in art for thousands of years, long before they became the go-to apology gesture. They captivate us with their beauty, symbolism, and adaptability, making them perennial favorites for artists across cultures and centuries. From ancient tombs to modern galleries, flowers have continuously bloomed in the imaginations of artists.

The first time I met 2BLEENE, I was working on a project in Puerto Rico. Her name immediately became a puzzle for my English-speaking clients. “How do you even say it?” they’d ask, brows furrowed as if trying to crack a code. Here’s the simple answer: in Spanish, “2BLEENE” means “Double N,” a playful nod to her full name, Natalia Nicole Rodriguez.

Before photography—when “just snap a picture” wasn’t an option—artists had the daunting job of capturing the essence of birds for science. These weren’t quick sketches; they had to be detailed enough to identify a species and beautiful enough to make people care. Over the centuries, bird illustration became a fascinating blend of art, science, and a hefty dose of patience. So, let’s take a quick flight through the history of those who turned birdwatching into fine art.

There’s something about Michael Souter’s work that feels like a beautifully orchestrated interruption. Take, for instance, his collection that reimagines vintage zoology illustrations—charming, detailed depictions of birds straight from the pages of an old field guide. And then he does what some might consider a crime: he covers them. Blocks them out. Wipes sections clean with washes of black ink or muted grays. But in doing so, he creates something entirely his own—honestly, it’s a bit of a revelation.

Susan Hostetler has an incredible knack for making art feel like magic. Her bird-themed installations are anything but ordinary. They don’t just sit there on a wall like most art; they move. Well, not literally, but the way they interact with light makes it seem like they might take flight at any moment. Depending on where you’re standing—or what time of day it is—you might see one bird or a whole flock multiplying across the wall. It’s a visual game of “now you see me, now you don’t,” and it’s absolutely mesmerizing.

Mundane objects often fade into the background, their design blending seamlessly into our lives to serve a functional purpose. But when removed from their context—by artists like Michael Craig-Martin or Fabio Menino—they transform. These artists elevate everyday objects, turning them into art and urging us to reconsider what we usually overlook.

Michael Craig-Martin’s art is proof that you don’t need grand, sweeping narratives to make something compelling. A chair, a pair of sunglasses, a light bulb—these are the humble stars of his show. But in his hands, these everyday objects transform into bold, vibrant icons that feel anything but ordinary.

Fabio Menino, an artist from São Paulo, has built his career on making us rethink the humble objects cluttering our lives. While most of us toss a broom in a corner or a watermelon on a countertop without a second thought, Fabio looks at these objects and sees something worth painting—a lot of something, actually.

Once upon a time, when gender roles were as rigid as your great-grandmother’s idea of a “good woman,” art didn’t exactly do much to challenge the status quo. Men were strong, stoic, and usually naked, flexing their marble pecs while lounging against a column. Women were delicate, mysterious, also naked—possibly clutching a fruit or draped in gauze for reasons no one understood. This was the art world’s version of a gender reveal: blue for boys, pink for girls, and absolutely no room for discussion.

Fast forward to today, where contemporary art has flipped this outdated narrative on its well-sculpted head. Artists are taking a sledgehammer to traditional gender roles, deconstructing them, and rearranging the pieces into a complex mosaic.

If you’re not familiar with Catherine Opie, you might want to prepare yourself—she is the punk rock of contemporary photography, with her camera acting as both a scalpel and a megaphone. She uses it to cut open the social constructs we all live by—gender roles being one of her favorite topics—and then loudly broadcasts the complexities she finds within.

Elizabeth Bergeland describes herself as an “incessant melancholy type,” which feels spot-on for an artist whose work digs deep into the grit of masculinity and emerges with paintings so tender, they might make you rethink everything you thought you knew about your high school gym coach. You know the type—red-faced, whistle-blowing, a master at pushing boys into boxes labeled "tough" or "soft." But Elizabeth? She’s prying those boxes wide open, and the results are truly beautiful.

Fine art photography often feels like it comes with an air of mystery, as though you need a special pass or an art degree to fully appreciate it. But here’s the thing: you don’t need to be part of an exclusive circle to enjoy fine art photography. It’s more accessible than you might think. The key is letting go of the pressure to “get it” and focusing instead on how it makes you feel.

So what’s the appeal of fine art photography, and how can you start to understand it?

Picture yourself strolling down a New York street, blissfully unaware that someone is following you. Not a friend or a lost tourist, but an artist—someone whose only goal is to silently track your every move. Maybe you duck into a bookstore, grab a coffee, or wander toward the subway. At no point are you aware that this stranger is trailing you, documenting your unremarkable day like a strange personal detective with no case to solve. This was the premise behind Vito Acconci’s 1969 conceptual art piece, Following Piece—part performance, part commentary on the unsettling proximity between everyday life and surveillance.