"We need to find our own style."
It is probably one of the most common things I hear from younger artists.
Sometimes they ask me directly. Sometimes they say it almost anxiously, as though everyone else has already found theirs and they are somehow falling behind.
Part of me thinks having a recognisable style is important. It helps people identify your work and, in many ways, becomes part of your artistic identity. But another part of me wonders if we've placed too much importance on style itself.
Reading through my recent conversation with Nik Shazmie reminded me that perhaps being an artist isn't about finding a style at all. Maybe it's about everything that happens while you're looking for it.
Nik and I go back quite a long way. We studied together during our degree years, sharing the same studios, the same lecturers, the same deadlines, and occasionally the same frustrations. Even then, everyone knew he was one of the strongest in our batch. It would be easy to say he was simply talented, and he certainly was.
But reducing his practice to talent alone misses the point.
What I remember most wasn't his ability.
It was his willingness to keep experimenting.
Many of us talk about finding our style as if it were the finish line.
But Nik has never worked that way.
At least, that's how I've always seen him.
While many of us were thinking about how to make a better painting, he seemed more interested in asking what a painting could actually become. I remember him producing sculptural paintings, treating painting not as a flat surface but as an object occupying space. He experimented with materials, forms, and scale without worrying too much about whether they fit neatly into conventional categories.
His works were usually among the largest in our studio.
He entered almost every competition available.
Looking back now, it almost feels obvious that someone with that mentality would eventually win the Nando's Art Competition twice before later receiving the UOB Painting of the Year. But I don't think those achievements came because he was chasing awards.
I think they came because he never stopped making.
Reading his answers, I realised that very little has changed.
While preparing this Artist's Pick, Nik sent me an old painting from our university days. It was titled Drift between Dreams. Along with the image came a WhatsApp message: "Haha you're one of my muse back then! 🤩😂"
I laughed and replied, "Ehh, muka aku ke? Hahaha."
I stared at the painting for a while.
And then it clicked.
It really was me.
It was a strangely nostalgic moment. We often revisit old artworks to trace an artist's development, but rarely do we realise we were quietly part of someone else's artistic journey. That small exchange reminded me that an artwork is also a record of friendships, shared studios, long critiques, and countless ordinary days that eventually become memories.
He talks about filling sketchbooks with unfinished thoughts. Allowing mistakes to redirect the work instead of correcting them. Wandering through cities without searching for anything in particular. Observing abandoned buildings, cafés, quiet streets, and ordinary objects as though they all have something to say.
It was his openness to them.
Many artists become more certain as their careers progress. They discover a formula that works and spend years refining it. There is nothing inherently wrong with that.
But there is something refreshing about meeting an artist who seems to become more curious with every milestone.
His residency in Paris didn't make him more confident about his ideas.
If anything, it made him more willing to question them.
Perhaps that is why his recent works feel different. Not because he deliberately decided to reinvent himself, but because he allowed new experiences to reshape the way he observes the world.
There was one part of our conversation that stayed with me.
Nik mentioned that he no longer begins with a complete image in his head. Previously, he felt that almost seventy percent of the work had already been solved before he even started. These days, he prefers to let the process surprise him.
That sounds simple.
It isn't.
Allowing uncertainty into your practice requires confidence.
Not the confidence of knowing exactly where you're going, but the confidence that you'll eventually find your way.
I think younger artists often misunderstand originality.
They assume originality lives in appearance.
A different colour palette.
A recognisable brushstroke.
A unique subject matter.
But originality rarely begins there.
It begins with process.
It begins with how you think.
How you solve problems.
How you pay attention to the world around you.
How willing you are to continue asking questions after everyone else has settled on answers.
Maybe that's why I rarely worry when someone tells me they haven't found their style yet.
I'd be far more worried if they stopped experimenting.
Because style isn't something you discover one afternoon and keep forever.
It is simply the residue left behind after years of curiosity.
And perhaps the artists whose work continues to evolve are not the ones who found their style.
They're the ones who never believed the search was over in the first place.
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