Is AI Replacing Animators? Why Human Creativity Still Leads

I recently heard from a friend who is an animation artist that he wants to learn how to paint.

That conversation stayed with me.

I have been painting since 2012, and for a long time, I honestly thought that traditional painting—working with canvas, brushes, and physical materials—would eventually become obsolete. Many artists I know shifted toward digital work and animation, where opportunities seemed more stable and in demand.

At one point, I even thought: maybe painters like me would be left behind.

But with the rapid rise of artificial intelligence in creative production, something unexpected is happening. It now seems that digital artists and animators are the ones feeling most threatened by AI, while traditional, human-centered art is regaining its value.

AI in Video and Animation: Amazing, But Not Exact

Recently, I experimented with AI by turning one of my paintings into an animation. Watching my artwork come to life was undeniably amazing. The movement, the atmosphere—it felt almost magical.

But when I prompted the AI to make the water move, something interesting happened.

Instead of animating my painting, the AI generated new images. It followed my instruction, yes—but not to a “T.” The result was visually impressive, yet it no longer fully reflected my original intent, emotion, or composition.

That experience clarified something important for me:

AI follows instructions, but it does not fully understand intention.

AI interprets patterns. Artists interpret meaning.

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Why AI Should Remain a Tool, Not a Replacement

Artificial intelligence is powerful. There is no denying that. It can speed up processes, generate variations, and assist in experimentation. Used properly, it can be a valuable creative tool.

But creativity itself—true creativity—does not come from efficiency alone.

Human artists bring:

• Lived experience

• Emotional memory

• Cultural context

• Intuition and judgment

• Intentional imperfection

These are not things AI possesses. AI does not struggle, doubt, grieve, hope, or reflect. It does not wake up with questions or wrestle with meaning. It does not grow through failure.

Artists do.

The Difference Between Generating and Creating

AI can generate images, animations, and videos. But generation is not the same as creation.

Creation involves choice—why this color, why this movement, why this pause. It involves restraint as much as expression. It involves knowing when not to add more.

As artists, our work is shaped by who we are, where we’ve been, and what we believe. That uniqueness cannot be replicated by algorithms trained on existing data.

AI can remix the past.
Artists imagine what does not yet exist.

Why Traditional Art and Human Skill Still Matter

Perhaps this is why my animator friend now wants to learn how to paint.

Traditional art trains something deeper than technique. It develops:

• Observation

• Patience

• Emotional awareness

• Presence

When you paint, your body is involved—your breath, your hand pressure, your rhythm. These subtle human elements give art its soul.

Ironically, as AI becomes more dominant in digital creation, human-made art becomes more valuable, not less. The authenticity, originality, and emotional honesty of human work stand out even more in a world of generated content.

A Balanced Future: Artists With Tools, Not Artists Replaced

I do not believe the future is about rejecting AI.

I believe the future belongs to artists who use AI consciously, without surrendering authorship, intention, or voice.

AI should assist—not decide.
Support—not replace.
Enhance—not erase.

When we allow machines to lead creativity, we lose something deeply human. But when artists lead—and use AI as one of many tools—we gain new possibilities without losing meaning.

Seeing my painting animated by AI was exciting. But it also reminded me of something essential:

The heart of art does not move because of code. It moves because of people.

As long as artists continue to think, feel, question, and imagine, creativity will remain human at its core.

Art and Emotional Literacy: Learning to Name What We Feel Through Painting

When Words Are Not Enough

Working as an HR consultant, I address issues and concerns objectively. I am expected to think rationally, remain calm during crises, and provide strategic recommendations that help organizations and people move forward. This is not easy.

We are human beings first before we are professionals. We absorb the energy of the people we work with. We feel pressure, tension, and emotional weight—even when we try our best to remain composed and positive.

There are moments when emotions feel confusing, heavy, or unnamed. When there is no safe space to talk, these emotions bottle up inside. What I cannot say in words, I often express through art.

This is why my canvas sometimes speaks for me.

When I paint to relieve stress, that emotional state often manifests in my work. Some pieces carry turbulence, angst, or intense energy expressed through color and movement. Others are softer, calmer, and reflective. Over time, I realized that my art had become a way of speaking—without words.

In this article, I would like to reflect on how emotions can be translated into art, and how understanding our emotions helps us express them in constructive rather than self-destructive ways.

Art as Emotional Language

Art is a powerful emotional language.

Colors, lines, shapes, and movement communicate feelings that words often fail to capture. Art allows emotions to surface without explanation. There are no “right” or “wrong” emotions on a canvas—only honest ones.

For many people, art feels safer than talking. It allows feelings to be externalized and made visible. What is internal and overwhelming becomes something we can see, sit with, and understand at our own pace.

I notice this clearly in my own work. Viewers often sense my emotional state immediately. When I use deep blues mixed with reds or muted oranges, it usually reflects a period of heaviness or inner struggle. When I paint with golden sunset hues, it often means I was content, grounded, and at peace during the moment of creation.

Art tells the truth—even when we don’t consciously intend it to.

Naming Emotions Through the Process of Painting

Painting has a way of slowing time.

When I sit in front of my easel and canvas, I forget my worries and even what awaits me at work. My breathing slows. My thoughts soften. There is a lightness that comes from being fully present.

The process is not always easy. There are moments when I struggle—when I don’t know what will come out next, or when I simply stare at the canvas waiting for clarity. Often, I begin by placing colors without a clear plan. Slowly, a form or concept emerges.

There are also moments of awe—when I simply let the brush move. Sometimes I have no idea where to start, but I let the colors glide. And suddenly, an image appears.

Inspiration turns painting into a flow. And after the piece is done, I often understand my emotions more clearly—not because I analyzed them, but because I allowed them to surface.

Art becomes a bridge between feeling and understanding.

Can you tell me how I feel about each painting I produced above?

Practical Tools for Emotional Expression Through Art

For those who want to explore emotional expression through drawing, I am sharing curated materials that are freely available online.

Below is an instructional video by Proko, a respected art education channel, demonstrating how to draw heads and explore proportion and value. This foundational exercise strengthens observation skills and helps connect form, shadow, and emotional tone.

Curated instructional video courtesy of Proko. Full credit goes to the creator for making high-quality educational content freely accessible.

To support your practice, I am also offering a free downloadable worksheet that you can use alongside the video:

How to Draw Heads & Explore Values — Practice Sheet
This includes:

• Basic head proportion guides
• Value scale exercises
• Gentle reflection prompts connecting drawing to emotional awareness

Free Download:

Drawing Heads & Exploring Value for Emotional Expression

[Download PDF]

These materials are meant to support practice, not perfection.

Why Children Benefit from Art Beyond Skills

When I teach children aged seven (7) to thirteen (13), I notice something consistent: they draw what they feel like drawing.

Even when references are provided, children often follow their inner direction instead. They create with less pressure, less self-judgment, and more honesty. This freedom helps them develop perception, interpretation, and emotional awareness.

Art is not just about developing motor skills. It helps children build emotional vocabulary over time.

In psychology, projective techniques such as the Draw-A-Person test or the House-Tree-Person exercise reveal how children perceive relationships, safety, and belonging. What children cannot articulate in words, they often express clearly through images.

Art becomes a safe space where emotions are allowed to exist.

Emotional Awareness Through Art Therapy (Personal Practice)

My reflections are inspired by art therapy principles, though they are not clinical practice.

Art therapy, in its essence, encourages creating without judgment, without analysis during the process, and with gentle reflection afterward. It respects emotions as they are.

We cannot judge an artwork as good or bad. Each piece reflects how the artist sees life at that moment. Art shows humanity—and that humanity deserves respect.

Through art, I have become more emotionally aware, not because I tried to label every feeling, but because I allowed myself to feel them safely.

Process Over Interpretation

Not every artwork needs an explanation.

Sometimes, emotions need space to exist without being named immediately. Trusting the process allows meaning to emerge naturally—if it needs to.

Over-interpretation can rob art of its healing quality. Presence matters more than explanation.

Learning to Listen

Art teaches us how to listen—quietly and patiently.

Emotional literacy is not learned overnight. It is a lifelong practice of noticing, accepting, and expressing what we feel.

With this article, I invite you to stop, look, and listen to every artwork you encounter. Suspend your interpretations for a moment. See the person behind the piece.

This is how we begin to truly appreciate not just art—but the artist.

 

Creating Art in Small Windows: Art Practice for Busy Professionals

Life is filled with meetings, deadlines, and service. Waiting for “free time” often keeps art postponed.

Finally, I found time to write this blog. To be honest, I didn’t feel like working anymore. I had just arrived from a training event, and lying down on my bed felt more appealing than having dinner. I grabbed a sandwich that was supposed to be my afternoon snack, but since I was still full, I decided to “Sharon” it—hehehe.

While resting, I opened my Google Drive and came across a video I took while practicing how to draw Keanu Reeves, my favorite actor. The original video was almost an hour long, but I sped it up. When I started sketching, I told myself I would only draw for thirty minutes or less—just practice. But once I began, I found myself wanting to improve every line. I may not have perfected it, but I spent time practicing—and that mattered.

That moment made me pause.

My life as an academy manager is constantly filled with meetings, deadlines, and service. Waiting for free time feels almost impossible. By the end of the day, I am exhausted—thankfully enough to sleep well—but I miss the precious time spent recharging through creativity.

The Myth of Free Time

This is where I realized something important.

Busy professionals often delay creativity. We rush to work, aiming to finish tasks efficiently, hoping that later we will finally have time for ourselves. Creativity is set aside because our regular jobs feed us.

Truthfully, if I focus solely on art, I don’t think I can earn what I currently receive from my regular work. And yet, art is what makes me happy.

From an art therapy perspective, creativity is not a reward—it is maintenance.
(This is not formal art therapy, but a personal practice inspired by its principles.)

When I create, I unwind and enter a state of flow. My horizon widens, and I feel emotionally and mentally balanced. While creating, I forget problems and life’s pressures. In art, there is no politics, no angst—only self-expression. It elevates my awareness of myself and the world around me.

I often describe creativity as vitamins for the soul. When I am stressed, my breathing becomes shallow and tight. But when I create, the tension in my chest and neck eases, and my mind clears.

That was when I stopped waiting for free time.

Small Windows That Matter

I forced myself—gently—to pick up my pencil and sketchbook for a 15–30 minute art session. That short session counted as practice. And when done regularly, even brief sessions lead to improvement.

Consistency matters—whether one is an amateur or an aspiring master. Just as athletes prepare daily for competition, artists must find time to practice their craft. There is no shortcut if we truly want to grow.

Below is a sped-up sketching video I made during one of these short practice sessions. It is not perfect—but it shows what can happen within a small window of time when we simply begin.

Managing Guilt When Choosing Art

I once heard my father—who is also an artist—say that art cannot pay for living expenses. That may have been true before. Today, art is a serious profession and not merely a hobby.

Still, productivity culture convinces us that work alone defines value—even when we are not fulfilled by it. But when we do what we truly love, work no longer feels heavy; it becomes meaningful.

Art and craft-making are emotionally regulating activities. If we want to be genuinely productive, we must make time for what brings joy and contentment. That is how sustainability in work begins.

This shift in mindset helped me release guilt. Choosing art was no longer indulgence—it became self-care.

Practical Ways to Create in Small Windows

Here is what worked for me.

I developed the habit of watching short reels about drawing, painting, crocheting, or even flower-making during lunch breaks. These small exposures motivate me to pick up my tools after a long day.

I also identified consistent windows in my day for a 15–30 minute uninterrupted art activity. For me, 5:00 a.m. and around 7:30 p.m. work best.

Early mornings are quiet—my laptop stays closed, distractions are minimized, and I can create before the workday begins. In the evening, if I still have energy, creating helps me release it before rest. You may discover a different time that works better for you. What matters is choosing a window with less pressure.

Finally...

I shared a sketching video to show that art doesn't have to be perfect. If we never try, how will we know where we need to improve?

If you are busy, tired, or overwhelmed, I invite you to consider this:

What would happen if you allowed yourself just fifteen minutes of creative space today?

I hope these reflections help you find—and protect—your own small windows for creativity.

Lessons from the Canvas 2-- Art as Healing: Reflections on Art Therapy, Creativity, and Everyday Life

The Orbs: Learning from What Refuses to Settle

Unfinished Truths and Emotional Density in Art

The Orbs were created in January 2022, during the post-pandemic period. It was a time when restrictions had finally eased, and I could once again return to creating art. There was relief in that freedom—but also a heaviness that lingered.

The lessons of isolation, being on your own during the ECQ, and learning to truly value life were still very present in my heart and mind. I carried those experiences with me into the studio, whether I intended to or not.

The process itself was intuitive. I created the orbs by pushing a balloon onto wet paint—allowing chance, pressure, and movement to determine their form. I mixed gold paint with acrylic medium so it could flow more freely, then softened it with white paint so the gold would not feel too heavy.

Later, I painted a woman holding a golden apple and reaching toward a book—the Bible. For me, the golden apples represent the Word of God. They were what sustained me during those trying times. They were what helped me hold on to life when everything felt uncertain.

At the time, I did not overthink the composition. I painted from what was still unresolved.

A Gentle Reading of The Orbs

What immediately stands out to me now is movement. The central figure feels suspended—reaching forward, yet not fully grounded. There is a strong diagonal pull from left to right, suggesting longing, effort, and aspiration. Looking back, that reaching feels deeply personal. I was moving forward, but still carrying the weight of what had just passed.

What once felt “wrong” to me about this painting was not a technical error, but something harder to name. It was visual congestion.

The orbs, textures, splatters, and gold elements are all active. Individually, they are meaningful. Together, they compete for attention. The eye does not immediately know where to rest. And perhaps that is the point.

There was a time when too many intentions, emotions, and reflections existed all at once. Each one mattered. Each one had weight. But together, they became overwhelming. This painting holds that truth without apology.

Emotional Density and the Absence of Pause

The background of The Orbs is rich and expressive, but it offers very little breathing space. Everything feels important. Nothing is quiet.

For a long time, I thought this was a flaw. Now I understand it differently. It is not wrong—it is emotionally dense.

This painting was created before I fully learned the lesson of waiting. Before I learned that not everything needs to be said at once. The absence of pause mirrors a season when rest was still difficult, even after the world reopened.

In many ways, The Orbs echoes the lesson I later wrote about—patience. It shows what happens when life moves faster than our ability to process it.

The Figure at the Center

The woman in the painting is clear to me. Her gesture, her posture, her direction—they are intentional. She reaches while holding something precious. She does not abandon what sustains her as she moves forward.

What feels unresolved is not her, but the space around her. The orbs feel like thoughts, memories, prayers, and questions that have not yet settled. They hover. They remain present.

This is not a compositional failure. It is a psychological truth captured honestly.

Why I Could Not Let This Painting Go

I kept The Orbs because it holds a moment when judgment, emotion, and intuition collided. It documents a time when clarity had not yet arrived—but movement continued anyway.

The painting has never been sold. Perhaps others sense what I sense—that it is unresolved, imperfect, even uncomfortable. And yet, it remains with me.

It is less an error and more a witness.

Why The Orbs Belongs in This Series

In the context of Lessons from the Canvas, The Orbs quietly support everything I have come to believe:

It shows what happens when we act before everything has thoroughly dried.

It embodies the discomfort of sitting with imperfect outcomes.
It reminds us that not all works are meant to be resolved—some are meant to teach.

In art therapy language, this painting is not asking to be corrected.
"It is asking to be observed without judgment."

And perhaps that is the hardest lesson of all—not just in art, but in life.

Author’s Note

I write this reflection at a season when I am learning to slow down—to listen more carefully to both my art and my life. Returning to the canvas has reminded me that not everything needs to be resolved immediately, and that some lessons arrive only when we allow ourselves to pause. Through these writings, I hope to share not answers, but honest moments—where art becomes a quiet companion in understanding patience, imperfection, and grace.

Lessons from the Canvas 1-- Art as Healing: Reflections on Art Therapy, Creativity, and Everyday Life

Lessons from the Canvas: What Painting Taught Me About Patience and Life

I have always said that art is a part of me. When I set aside my creativity, I feel as though I am losing an opportunity to truly live. Art has always been my way of breathing, reflecting, and understanding myself.

So today, let me once again share some lessons from art—how patience through painting has quietly translated into where I am now, and how the canvas continues to mirror my life decisions.

The Canvas Is an Honest Teacher

Whenever I look at a blank canvas, I feel refreshed and excited about how it might turn out. That moment of possibility is deeply comforting. This is why, whenever I feel stressed or overwhelmed by life’s challenges, I go back to basics—emptying my thoughts and my heart, and allowing myself to start anew.

The canvas teaches us to clear our muddied minds and to see the world with childlike openness. A child, they say, is tabula rasa—a blank slate. What we place on that empty surface determines how the story unfolds. In painting, what we feed the canvas—values, colors, themes, and intention—shapes the outcome.

In the same way, the elements we allow into our lives influence how our own image of life develops.

Waiting for Paint to Dry Taught Me About Patience

In creating a piece, I cannot always apply all the colors and layers in one sitting—especially when working with oil paint. Often, I have to wait for the paint to dry before adding more vibrant layers. If I rush and keep painting wet on wet, the colors may turn dull and muddy.

Of course, there are artists who master the wet-on-wet technique beautifully. But for many of us, that skill requires time and discipline. Patience is born from the desire for a better outcome. It is essential in developing artistic skill, and just as necessary in life.

Through painting, I learned that patience is not passive waiting—it is an intentional pause rooted in trust. Truly, patience is a virtue learned slowly, layer by layer.

Mistakes in Painting Resemble Life’s Wrong Turns

There are moments when I step back from a painting and feel that the finish is not right. I return to it again and again, yet still feel unsettled by the outcome. Sometimes, the elements feel noisy or overly busy—much like my painting “The Orbs.”

Each element in that work is symbolic of something I wanted to express. Yet perhaps I made the wrong choices in color composition, or failed to create a natural flow that matched my original intention.

When I encounter mistakes like these, I stop. I do not erase them. These errors resemble life’s wrong turns—moments when judgment falters, when decisions do not lead where we hoped. Looking at this painting now reminds me that I do not always make the right choices, and that awareness itself is a lesson.

These mistakes teach me how to respond more wisely in similar situations in the future. I learned from them, and I continue to learn.

 

A Reflection on The Orbs

One painting that continues to teach me is The Orbs. At first glance, it feels crowded—almost noisy—with too many elements competing for attention. Yet, each orb carries a meaning I once held strongly, each color a thought or emotion I was unwilling to release. Looking at it now, I realize it mirrors a season in my life when everything felt urgent and unresolved at the same time. Instead of correcting it, I chose to keep the painting as it is. It reminds me that there are moments when clarity does not arrive immediately, and that unfinishedness itself can be a form of truth.

Knowing When to Correct—and When to Let Go

After realizing that the result was not what I intended, I chose to stop. I could have repainted the canvas white and reused it—but I didn’t. There is something about this piece that I cannot let go of.

The painting is still with me. It has never been sold. Perhaps others see it the way I do—as imperfect, unresolved, an error. And yet, it holds meaning. It captures a moment of honesty that feels too important to erase.

Art Therapy Insight: Observing Without Judgment

Professional artists often say that there is no wrong painting and no ugly work of art. Art is self-expression, and just like people, every piece has its own unique qualities.

In art therapy reflections, the practice is not about judging the outcome but about observing with compassion—allowing the process to speak before the result. We do not always know the intent or emotion behind a piece—and that, too, deserves respect. The artist has the right to express what needs to surface, even if it feels uncomfortable or unfinished.

A Takeaway

Growth happens when we stop forcing outcomes. In art, flow is essential. Working from the heart—rather than from pressure or fear—is what leads to meaningful creation.

Your work, as an artist or as a person, will find its rightful place. There is no need to rush or force success. Showcase your work. Allow it to breathe. Who knows—it may be the next piece that finds a home, or it may quietly become part of your personal collection of lessons learned.

I will be writing another article dedicated entirely to The Orbs—exploring what it continues to teach me, and how we can learn from paintings that resist resolution. This reflection will be part of a future series on unfinished truths and emotional density in art, where I hope to explore how complexity, discomfort, and imperfection can become quiet teachers in both art and life.

Before you go, may I invite you, dear reader, to reflect on a “mistake” you’ve learned to accept?

If you feel comfortable, I would love for you to share it by leaving a comment on this article.

 

Author’s Note

I write this reflection at a season when I am learning to slow down—to listen more carefully to both my art and my life. Returning to the canvas has reminded me that not everything needs to be resolved immediately, and that some lessons arrive only when we allow ourselves to pause. Through these writings, I hope to share not answers, but honest moments—where art becomes a quiet companion in understanding patience, imperfection, and grace.