If you’re pursuing a career in the arts—whether you're a college student, graduate student, or emerging professional—you’ve likely been asked to write an artist statement. It might seem daunting at first, but a well-crafted artist statement is a powerful tool that can help clarify your voice, define your purpose, and connect your audience to your work. In this article, we’ll explore why artist statements are important, what they should include, common do’s and don’ts, and share a few examples to get you started.

​When we think of American art history, names like Winslow Homer or Georgia O'Keeffe may spring to mind. But long before their time, in the early 19th century, a quieter pioneer was laying the foundation for a genre that would one day flourish in American studios: the still life. That painter was Raphaelle Peale, widely considered America’s first professional still life artist.

This painting, Bulls and Boots, is one of my larger still lifes, and I gave myself the space—and the time—to really dig into the textures and the storytelling. The old leather boots were a particular focus. I found myself returning to the worn seams and sagging laces again and again, considering not only the physical wear, but the history that wear might represent. Whose feet walked in them? What kind of land did they walk across? What kind of life did they live?

There’s also an old black-and-white photograph of a bull tucked into the composition. It’s a quiet trompe l’oeil element, a wink at the viewer, and a nod to the ranching traditions that run deep here in Arizona. The bull’s posture, its thick neck and proud horns, seemed to match the quiet resilience in the boots. Both feel like characters—maybe even echoes of one another.
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And while this piece may read as a western still life, it’s rooted more deeply in the Hispanic influence on Arizona’s culture than it might first appear.

Long before Arizona became a U.S. state, it was part of the northern frontier of New Spain, and later Mexico. In fact, much of Southern Arizona—including Tucson—remained under Mexican governance until 1854. This history isn’t just something in the textbooks; it’s visible in the architecture, in family names, in recipes passed down, and yes—in ranching traditions.

Mexican vaqueros were the original cowboys of the American West. They were highly skilled horsemen and cattle herders, and many of the customs, tools, and clothing we now associate with the American cowboy—spurs, wide-brimmed hats, bandanas, chaps, and yes, those worn-in boots—trace directly back to vaquero culture. Even the very idea of open-range cattle ranching, such a key part of Arizona’s economy and mythology, has its roots in Spanish and Mexican practice.
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In Bulls and Boots, I wanted to gesture toward this long and often overlooked history. The boots, battered as they are, still stand tall. There’s memory there, and endurance. The blue bandana, subtly draped in the composition, is a quiet symbol of Hispanic identity and labor—hardworking, dignified, and woven into the fabric of our state.

Arizona is deeply influenced by its Hispanic roots—not just historically, but in daily life. From the rhythms of mariachi bands echoing through town festivals, to the deep flavors of carne asada sizzling on backyard grills, to the bilingual signage you’ll find across cities and small towns alike—Mexican culture is not a background presence; it is part of Arizona’s heartbeat.
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There’s also a profound emphasis on family, tradition, and respect for elders that continues to shape communities across the state. I see this in the students I teach, in my neighbors, and in the art that emerges from this region. There’s pride and humility in equal measure. There’s a sense that stories matter—that who came before you matters. And perhaps that’s what this painting is trying to hold on to.

The inclusion of the old books in the painting adds another layer—one about aspiration. They represent the pursuit of knowledge, the idea of progress through learning, and perhaps even the promise of the American Dream. For many Hispanic families in Arizona, education has been a path toward new opportunities, bridging generations and cultures.

Bulls and Boots is a still life, but I hope it also feels like a small visual poem—a tribute to the Mexican ranchers and workers whose lives helped shape Arizona. It speaks to memory, legacy, and the quiet strength of everyday objects.
As always, I’d love to know what you see in the piece. What memories or stories does it bring to mind for you? Drop your thoughts below—I’m always eager to hear how others connect with the work. 👇

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