O’Keefe and the Limits of Artistic Freedom:

I have long been fascinated by the life of Georgia O'Keeffe: her affair with photographer and gallerist Alfred Stieglitz, the provocative nude photography that emerged from their relationship, her swift ascent in the art world through her flower paintings, and the Freudian interpretations they attracted—read as subconscious expressions of female sexuality. When O'Keeffe heard this feedback, she refuted it, firmly asserting that she simply wanted to paint flowers. She famously retorted, "They were talking about themselves, not me," suggesting that the critics were projecting their own desires. Shouldn't she, after all, know better than anyone what her paintings were about? Yet there was little she could do to push back against the overwhelmingly masculine and patriarchal art world.

This reflects a classic artistic dilemma: the moment an artwork is released into the world, it belongs to the eye of the beholder. It escapes the artist's control and morphs into something new, shaped by interpretation. There's beauty in that process—a kind of unspoken collaboration between creator and receiver. The magic often resides in this in-between space: a dialogue, a spark, a personal reaction with infinite variability.

The first time I encountered O'Keeffe's work, it resonated deeply. I too had a fascination with studying and capturing flora, shells, and other natural forms—objects I found aesthetically miraculous and endlessly inspiring. I didn't perceive any sexual subtext. When I later read those interpretations, I felt naive, even blind, and thought I should defer to the 'experts' who seemed better equipped to decode her work. Only later did I begin to question those interpretations—and grew more curious about O'Keeffe's original intent. Now, I wonder: does it matter? Why do we feel compelled to understand the context or uncover the artist's true intention before we allow ourselves to simply feel the work? I've noticed a tendency to intellectualize art first, as if understanding it conceptually is a prerequisite to appreciating it emotionally. As if there were a 'right' way to experience a piece of art, a hierarchy of value we must navigate to be able to distinguish good and bad art.

This tendency may stem from a long evolution in the history of art, culminating in the highly conceptual contemporary era—where works often require layers of insider knowledge, context, and references to be fully grasped. The discourse around art, especially in institutional or established gallery settings, often feels exclusive—an entre-soi, or conversation among the initiated. It becomes a marker of social status more than a genuine appreciation of the work and its process.

Western culture tends to prioritize rationalization over emotional sensitivity. The latter is often seen as a weakness, something outdated or primitive. In Descartes' Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain, neuroscientist Antonio Damasio reassesses the split between body and mind proposed by the 17th-century philosopher. He argues that reason cannot function without guidance from emotions, feelings, and sensory cues. Like children—or like my naive self, perhaps—our first contact with a piece of art should not be to seek its meaning, but to experience its feeling through our body and senses.

I recently watched the documentary Georgia O'Keeffe: The Brightness of Light, which offers a rich, detailed and comprehensive portrait of her life. I wanted to know more about her background and the enigma surrounding her motives. From the outset, her independence and strong sense of identity were evident, starting with the bold abstraction of her early charcoal drawings (mostly untitled) that first caught Stieglitz's attention in 1915–16.