ale or soul? This is the question that an artist – especially one from the younger, emerging generation – faces regularly. Often, it arises internally – at times, it is imposed from outside – whether by fellow practitioners or by a gallery owner. The answer, if there is one, lies somewhere deep within an unexplored mine – the unconscious. Yet, to navigate the day-to-day demands of both life and art-making, one must make a choice.

That choice, however, is far from clear. Like water – which appears pure but is often a blend of minerals and chemicals – artistic pursuits are rarely unalloyed in their intent. Yet, as there is no need for a laboratory to analyse each creative endeavour – artists are generally divided into two broad categories: those who prioritise their artistic – or literary, musical, or other – pursuits for material gain, and those who create mostly for self-satisfaction. To put it in more familiar terms the distinction is between commercial and non-commercial art, literature and music.

To the first category – regardless of the quality, quantity, artistic merit or monetary value of their work – the audience takes precedence. Their creations – whether in the form of a specific artwork or otherwise – communicate their ideas, concerns and personal experiences, yet their primary focus remains the response they evoke in others – ideally in the form of sales, praise, positive reviews and media recognition.

In the early stages of their careers, most young artists may aspire to these rewards. However, over time, their goals become clearer, filtering out other distractions. In Pakistan, many painters and sculptors began their journeys with great promise and artistic ambition, only to shift towards producing work primarily for the market once they attained a certain level of prestige. So much so that the paintings of a recently deceased artist became akin to casino chips – mere assets to be converted into hard currency. Once a gifted graduate and a favourite of Ali Imam, the painter openly admitted to his motivations – he needed to finance the marriages of his four daughters.

This trend continues with the influx of new artists, driven in part by the proliferation of galleries and their growing influence. Another contributing factor is the entry of architecture-trained, contractor-turned professionals, who, rather than engaging with an artist’s creative process, prefer to place orders for customised pieces with specific dimensions, colour schemes, materials and surface finishes.

Once an artist becomes accustomed to structuring their work around such demands, conforming to expected imagery becomes easier – almost inevitable. Within this league, some skilful minds and hands attempt to present their imagery, ideas, chromatic palettes and optical textures as the outcome of an artistic search for the ideal form. Ultimately, many fail to leave a lasting mark – like the painter who, once in high demand in the late nineties for his pastiches of sacred symbols, Islamic calligraphy and miniature painting, now finds himself relegated to the periphery of Pakistan’s updated art history.

On the other hand, there are those – though fewer in number compared to the former group – who remain determined to pursue their inner calling, regardless of whether their work is appreciated through words or valued in monetary terms. Even when faced with criticism about the meaning of their creations, the purpose of their practice or the relevance of their content, they continue in their chosen direction.

This does not mean that they are indifferent to the sale of their works through galleries or art dealers – but these realities do not compel them to compromise their unique vision. Even Vincent van Gogh – the ultimate symbol of the suffering artist – longed for his paintings to sell. Yet, his disappointment in that regard never altered his artistic course, his thinking, or his search for meaning. Canvases once rejected by art critics and exhibition panels are now among the most prized and celebrated pieces in public and private collections around the world.

In truth, all artists possess elements of both idealism and pragmatism. As observed in the work of most artists – regardless of years, experience or exposure – these two aspects coexist, much like opposing genders within every human being. The difference lies in the proportion of each – a shift that determines the type of image-maker, much like gender defines an individual.

For a young artist, new to the profession, choosing between the two is very difficult. Favouring one over the other does not guarantee excellence of expression, mastery of craft or complexity of concerns – nor does it assure fame. The soul of the artist is truly satisfied only when – and if – freedom is attained.

A recently opened group exhibition, Beyond the Veil (February 18–27, Canvas Gallery, Karachi), featuring four artists who graduated between 2021 and 2024 from the National College of Arts, explores their personal interpretations of freedom. Diverse in mediums, imagery, sources and themes, their work exemplifies how an artist can pursue their own vision while aligning with a community of practitioners who share similar ethics – though not necessarily aesthetics.

Whether engaging with the traditional art of miniature painting and Persian text (Hooria Khan), the political conditions in Parachinar (Maisam Hussain), the existential crisis of modern man (Salar Marri) or the familiar environment of a woman (Vania Mazhar), these external influences are transformed into unique visual languages, rich with layered meanings and interpretations.

Hooria Khan’s exquisite paintings on paper mark a departure from the conventional vocabulary of Persian miniatures, narrating a soul’s search for its abode. Her compositions depict a spirit surrounded by birds and flourishing vegetation, unfolding a saga of good and evil unconstrained by tangible measurements such as scale or local colour theory. These conventional markers of perception are freed from their limitations, allowing the artist to convey a deeper message – a reflection of the resilience ingrained within the very fabric of existence.

Maisam Hussain, hailing from a turbulent district recently in the national media for sectarian violence, has documented the effects of war using graphite and gunpowder on paper. His work creates the illusion of a wall bearing testimonials of rocket fire, an erased newspaper page featuring images of soldiers who died in combat with terrorist, and a list of martyrs from recent clashes in his region. His decision to render these subjects in black and white is significant, reinforcing the gravity of a critical and harrowing reality.

A similarly formal-cum-political language is explored by Salar Marri in his loosely executed paintings. His work suggests the angst of life, love, situations and political struggle – particularly in a small canvas resembling the last photograph of Che Guevara after the revolutionary comandante was executed by the Bolivian Special Forces with support from American CIA agents. Marri’s other paintings, depicting men – alone or in pairs – can be interpreted as expressions of political resistance, personal trauma or pleasure derived from two seemingly disparate pursuits.

In contrast to Marri’s sketchy strokes, Vania Mazhar’s imagery is fluid. Her brushwork captures the immediacy of perception—both from the painter’s and the viewer’s perspective. This sense of urgency contrasts with the quiet postures she chooses for her mixed-media works: family members sleeping, sitting at a table with a computer or resting beside a domestic dog. In another piece, Mazhar reinterprets a painting by Édouard Vuillard, a choice that carries particular significance. Vuillard, known for his interest in capturing light, colour and atmosphere, engaged with elements that are neither fashionable nor widely embraced by artists in Pakistan today. This choice itself signifies further artistic freedom.

The writer is a visual artist, an art critic, a curator and a professor at the School of Visual Arts and Design, Beaconhouse National University, Lahore.