Why there should be no 'shame' in art education

By Evan Wood, Research Further Scholar

Art education is supposed to be a place of wonder—a sanctuary where creativity and self-expression flourish. But for many, it’s marked by something far more constrictive: shame. Not just the personal kind, but a broader, cultural shame that quietly dictates who gets to call themselves 'an artist' and who doesn't. This kind of shame isn’t just a feeling. It’s a tool—a coercive cultural act that disciplines expression, polices identity, and upholds harmful hierarchies.

We often think of shame as an internal response to doing something wrong. But in reality, shame is frequently used as a social tool—a way to enforce norms and maintain control. In art education, shame can become a means of coercion, reinforcing dominant standards of beauty, skill, and worth. It tells students: There is a correct way to create, and if you don’t or can’t meet it, you don't belong.

This dynamic doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It reflects broader cultural patterns. In classrooms, this can look like teachers praising realism over abstraction, favouring Western art histories, or dismissing emotional or intuitive approaches to making. Students who think, feel, or create outside these boundaries are often subtly—or explicitly—shamed into compliance. The unspoken message: To be taken seriously, you must fit the mould.

Young children rarely start their creative journeys with shame. They're fearless. They draw purple cows and asymmetrical houses without apology. But once they're introduced to grades, rubrics, and "rules" of art-making, many start to edit themselves. Suddenly, the goal isn't exploration—it's approval.

This shift is not just educational, it's political. When shame is used to discipline creativity, it conditions people to self-censor, to strive for external validation, and to equate worth with technical precision or adherence to style. Over time, the internal critic becomes a stand-in for the external judge. And just like that, shame does its job—it keeps us in line.

Shame operates not just on the individual level but at a systemic one. It’s baked into how we measure success, how we define “skill,” and who we decide is worthy of being called an artist. It can discourage working-class students, neurodivergent people, and those from non-Western traditions from seeing themselves reflected or accepted in the art world.

To challenge this, we need to reframe art education—not just as a place to build skill, but as a space to deconstruct the systems that shape how we see ourselves and others. Healing from artistic shame is a deeply political act. It’s a rejection of the idea that worth is measured by polish or perfection. It’s a return to creative autonomy and connection.

For students and lifelong learners alike, this healing can look like:

• Making art in private, without the need for external validation
• Exploring materials and forms that don’t “make sense” in traditional contexts
• Engaging in community-based, non-hierarchical creative spaces
• Learning about art movements and makers outside the canon
• Naming shame for what it is: a control mechanism, not a truth

Educators, too, can take up this work. By embracing failure as a necessary part of learning, validating all forms of creative expression, and teaching the socio-political context of art, they can offer students an antidote to shame.

There’s something radical about making art without apology. When we push past the internalized voices that say "you’re not good enough", we reclaim a vital part of ourselves. And in doing so, we challenge the larger systems that benefit from our silence.

This doesn’t mean we abandon rigor or technique—it means we stop using them as the only benchmarks of value. When creativity is defined only by its ability to impress, it loses its power to transform. But when it’s rooted in play and self-expression, it becomes a tool for liberation.

Art education doesn’t have to be a site of shame. It can be a space of undoing, unlearning, and reimagining. It can teach us not only how to draw or paint but how to trust ourselves. That process starts with recognizing shame not as a personal failing, but as a cultural force—one we can question, resist and outgrow.

In reclaiming joy and autonomy in making, we’re not just healing ourselves. We’re making space for others, too.