The Habit That Changed How I Paint Walls

I never meant to spend half my life dangling from lifts or standing on sidewalks with a brush in my hand while strangers drifted past me with their coffee cups and morning plans. Yet here I am, a mid-career muralist with more paint stains on my jeans than memories of the places I lived in my twenties. For years I said yes to almost anything: schools, breweries, parks, abandoned buildings that needed a little hope on the outside. If someone wanted a wall covered, I was their guy. I loved the size of it all, the way my whole body had to move with the strokes, and the feeling of stepping back twenty feet and seeing something come alive.

But even though I stayed busy, I avoided anything that looked like art critique. It felt like opening a door to a room where someone would be waiting with a list of everything I still didn’t know. I pretended I was too busy for feedback. I told myself that murals were different because they lived outdoors and had to make sense from across the street, not in a studio under bright lights. I had a whole set of excuses ready, and I used them so often they started sounding like truth.

The funny part is that the thing I avoided is the same thing that ended up helping me slow down. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect critique to feel like someone handing me an extra kind of vision. It started when a friend of mine, a quiet painter who works mostly with oils, asked if she could walk around one of my pieces in progress. She said she was curious about how I built the layers. I shrugged and said sure, even though my stomach felt tight. She didn’t say much at first. She just stood there, tilting her head a little, like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear. Then she pointed out a section where the warm tones pushed forward a bit too hard, making the center feel louder than I meant it to. It wasn’t criticism. It was more like she was holding up a mirror and letting me see my own choices without all the noise I usually carry in my head. That moment stuck with me.

Over the next year, I started letting more people look at pieces before they were done. Not everyone, just the ones who paid attention in a careful way. I learned that thoughtful feedback is its own kind of craft. Someone has to look at your work long enough to understand the rhythm behind it. They have to notice the small things, like how a patch of color leans too warm or how a line drifts when you meant it to hold steady. I began to realize that critique wasn’t a judgment. It was a conversation between the work and the world, and the artist just got to listen in.

And slowly, something changed in the way I approached each wall. I stopped racing the clock. I let myself sit on the curb for a few minutes just to look at the shapes before I added the next layer. I started seeing feedback as a kind of companion, not a threat. A thoughtful comment from another artist became a variation of the same steady voice that told me when something felt off even if I couldn’t explain why. It made the whole process steadier, like putting my hand on a railing when I walked down uneven steps. I didn’t lean on it all the time, but it was there when I needed to catch my balance.

Sometimes I think about the years I spent brushing off critique as if it were just noise. I’m not proud of that, but I understand why it happened. When you are younger, especially when you feel you have something to prove, it is easy to mistake speed for progress. I was always onto the next wall, the next city, the next idea I could stretch across a surface big enough to make me feel like I was growing. But growth doesn’t always come from making bigger things. A lot of the time, it comes from seeing what was right in front of you and learning how to respond with more care. Thoughtful feedback helped me do that. It didn’t give me answers. It gave me attention, and that was enough to shift the way I worked.

I did not notice how much I had changed until one afternoon when I was working on a long stretch of wall behind a small market. The sun was dipping low, and the light had that soft gold tint that makes everything look kinder. I had been blocking in the background shapes for hours, and my shoulders were starting to feel tight, so I stepped back across the alley to get a better look. A teenager on a bike stopped near me and asked what I was painting. I told him I was still figuring it out, which was true. He squinted at the wall for a moment, and then he said the top section felt heavier than the rest. He said it gently, like he didn’t want to throw me off, and then he rode away. I stood there and stared at the section he mentioned, and I realized he was right. I had drifted too dark in that part. It amazed me that someone who knew nothing about composition could see something I had missed after staring at it for hours. That moment stayed with me because it reminded me why listening matters. Sometimes the most honest note comes from someone who sees the work with fresh eyes.

Since then, I’ve made a habit of pausing more often while I paint. I pull back from the wall and give myself space to notice the things that slip by when I’m too close. I listen to the small voice inside me that says something feels off, even if I don’t know what it is yet. Most of the time, that voice is quieter than the part of me that wants to get the job done fast. But slowing down has helped me understand that speed doesn’t build meaning. Attention does. This is something I might never have understood without critique. People think critique is about someone pointing out what you did wrong, but that isn’t how it feels when it comes from someone who cares about the craft. It feels more like a tap on the shoulder that says, Look again. You missed something important.

One thing I’ve learned is that taking feedback is harder when you tie your whole identity to the work. When I was younger, every comment felt like someone was poking at the inside of my chest. I wanted to prove I belonged in this field, and any suggestion of change felt like proof that I didn’t. Now I understand that feedback doesn’t shrink the work. It expands it. A steady remark about color or spacing gives me room to grow, not less space to stand. That shift in perspective has been one of the most freeing parts of this stage of my career. I don’t need to defend every stroke. I just need to listen long enough to see if the note reveals something I couldn’t see before. That is a very different way of working, and it has made me calmer in ways I didn’t expect.

There is a wall in the east part of town that I return to sometimes just to remember how far I’ve come. It was one of my earliest paid murals, and I painted it in a rush because I was afraid the client would change their mind. I didn’t give myself time to step back or breathe or let the work speak to me. I laid down color after color until the whole thing looked loud and confused. I didn’t realize that at the time, of course. I thought it looked bold. But now, every time I visit it, I can see all the choices I made too quickly. I can see the spots where I didn’t trust myself enough to slow down. Strangely, I don’t feel embarrassed about it anymore. That mural feels like an old journal entry. It holds the version of me who still believed that confidence came from pretending to know everything. Now, I see confidence in a different light. It looks more like being open to seeing your work from another angle, even if that angle is uncomfortable for a minute.

A few months ago, I invited a small group of local artists to stop by while I was working on a large piece near the riverwalk. I told them they could point out anything that caught their eye, even if it was just a feeling. I didn’t set rules or ask for specific kinds of notes. I just wanted to listen. The comments I got were gentle and honest: a section that felt too tense, a part where the colors didn’t breathe enough, a line that pulled the eye too hard to the left. I took each note and sat with it for a moment before touching the wall again. Some suggestions I used, some I didn’t, but all of them changed the way I saw the mural. By the time the piece was done, it felt like a conversation rather than a solo performance. That is the thing I love most about critique now. It opens a door to connection. It reminds me that making art is not a lonely task unless you choose to make it that way.

The strange thing is that once I began letting people speak into my work, I started noticing patterns in the kinds of things they pointed out. It wasn’t always about color or balance. Sometimes it was something small, like the way a shape leaned a little too far in one direction or how a section felt tight even though the lines were clean. Those comments taught me to look for tension the way a musician listens for notes that do not sit right. Before that, I only looked for mistakes I already knew how to see. Now I pay attention to the entire feeling of a piece, not just the parts I painted last. This shift has made me more patient with myself. I used to rush past anything that felt uncomfortable, as if slowing down would reveal something I did not want to see. These days I let the discomfort stay for a moment because I know there is usually something helpful hiding inside it.

One afternoon I was working on a mural behind a community center, and the breeze kept lifting the corner of my reference sketch. I had taped it three times already, and I was getting annoyed with how the paper fluttered. A woman walking her dog stopped to watch me for a bit. She asked how long the work would take, and I laughed and told her I never answer that question because I always get it wrong. She kept looking at the wall and said the top curve reminded her of a river bend she used to visit with her grandparents. I had not noticed the shape looked like that, but once she said it, I saw it immediately. It changed the way I shaded the next layer. I made the transition softer so the shape flowed instead of cutting sharply across the surface. It is moments like that which remind me feedback can come from anyone, and sometimes the simplest observations carry the most weight.

Another thing I have learned is that listening to critique makes you more aware of where your instincts come from. When someone points out something that feels off, I can almost trace the moment in my mind when I rushed a choice or ignored a hesitation. It is like seeing a map of my own habits. Sometimes the habits come from fear, like the fear of spending too long on a section and running behind schedule. Sometimes they come from old patterns I picked up years ago. Paying attention to them has made me more deliberate. I no longer hide behind speed or the size of the wall. Instead, I let myself slow down enough to understand why I made a mark the way I did. It is not about doubting myself. It is about paying attention to what the work is asking for, not just what I think it should be.

There was one mural I worked on near the old train depot that carried a different kind of pressure. The building had a long history in the neighborhood, and people walked by all day with their own stories tied to that place. I wanted the piece to feel like it belonged to them as much as it belonged to me. On the third day, a man who had lived there his entire life stopped to talk. He told me the colors I chose reminded him of the early morning light that used to hit the trains when he was a kid. I had not planned it that way, but hearing him say that made me rethink the mood of the lower half of the piece. I added softer transitions and warmed up the shadows. That small change made the whole thing feel more rooted in the space. It was not critique in the formal sense, but it shaped the final work just as much.

All of these little moments have added up over the years. They have taught me that critique does not need to be a formal sit-down with someone analyzing every inch of a painting. Sometimes it is a passing thought from a stranger. Other times it is a quiet question from a friend who understands the way you think. What matters is the willingness to hear it. Before I let critique into my process, I treated every note like a judgment. Now I treat it like information. It feels more like someone handing me a small tool I can use if it fits. When I look back at earlier pieces, I can see how tightly I used to hold everything. I tried to carry the whole story alone. Now I see the value in letting the world speak into the work a little. It gives the mural a sense of shared breath, and it reminds me that art grows best when it has room to be seen from more than one angle.

There was a stretch of time a couple years back when I thought I might be losing my spark. I kept showing up to walls with all my gear, but the designs felt flat no matter how long I stared at them. I remember sitting on a bucket behind a grocery store, trying to plan out the color flow for a new piece, and nothing clicked. I kept thinking maybe I had reached the limit of what I could do. That feeling stayed with me for months. During that time I avoided letting anyone look at my sketches because I didn’t want to hear that they felt the same way I did. But one evening, after packing up early because I could not get the background right, I showed a draft to an artist friend named Luis. He studied it for a moment, then pointed to a narrow section and said the space felt trapped. That word, trapped, hit something in me. I knew exactly what he meant. I had been painting from a place that felt tight, like I was forcing myself to pretend I had things under control. That single word helped me loosen up the entire concept the next morning.

After that, I made a habit of inviting a few trusted people into my process earlier than I ever had before. It felt risky at first because showing unfinished work means showing the places where I still feel unsure. But the more I did it, the more I realized that uncertainty is not a weakness. It is part of the energy that pushes a mural to grow into something stronger than I planned. When someone looks at a piece that is still forming and tells me how a line feels or how a shape carries weight, it gives me clues about where the story of the wall wants to go. Sometimes their thoughts line up with what I already feel deep down, and sometimes they point in a direction I never considered. Either way, it gives me room to move. It is like having a small lantern shine on the next few steps while I walk.

One of the most helpful things I learned came from a sculptor named Rina, who has a way of speaking in phrases that sound simple but stay with you for years. She visited me while I worked on a long mural near the waterfront. She watched me paint for a while without saying anything. Then she told me that every piece has a heartbeat and that listening to it is the only way to know what it needs. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what she meant. But when she pointed at the left section of the wall and said it felt like the heartbeat was skipping there, I finally saw what she meant. The section felt rushed. I had been trying too hard to match a deadline instead of matching the rhythm of the work. Her note helped me settle into the pace the mural needed. I spent the rest of the afternoon softening transitions and letting the shapes breathe a little more.

There is a certain calm that comes from letting the work unfold without forcing it. For a long time, I thought confidence meant painting without hesitation. Now I think confidence is trusting myself enough to step back and listen. When I give the piece time to speak, the choices become clearer. That space is where thoughtful feedback started to make the biggest difference. Even when I do not invite formal notes, I still carry the lessons from earlier critiques with me. They help me recognize the same patterns in new pieces, almost like having a quiet companion who points out where a line grows restless or where a color wants more room. I used to see critique as something separate from my process. Now it feels woven into everything I do.

Sometimes I wonder how many years I spent painting on instinct alone, racing from project to project without ever stopping long enough to understand why certain sections never sat right. Looking back, I can see how often I ignored the feeling that something needed more attention. Letting critique into my work helped me notice those small signals instead of pushing past them. It trained me to look at murals not just as big pictures but as living things made of tiny decisions. That perspective has changed my entire approach. I still paint with energy and movement, but now I also make space for reflection. It doesn’t slow me down the way I once feared. It just makes the work more honest.

There was a wall I worked on last spring that reminded me how much my process has shifted. It sat on the side of an old repair shop, the kind of place where the concrete stays warm long after the sun goes down. I spent the first morning sketching the broad shapes, mapping where the colors would fall, and letting the whole idea settle on the surface. Around noon, a man in a faded work shirt stepped outside to smoke and watched me for a while. He asked if the mural was supposed to feel like it was leaning forward. At first I didn’t know what he meant, but when I stepped back and saw the wall through his eyes, I noticed the right side pushed ahead of the left in a way I hadn’t intended. The tilt wasn’t dramatic, but it changed the feeling of the whole piece. His comment wasn’t framed as advice. It was just an observation. But it nudged me to adjust the layout so the flow felt more balanced. Small notes like that have become part of how I paint now.

I used to think critique had to come from people with long art histories or formal training. But so much of what has helped me over the years has come from regular folks walking by, people who don’t know a thing about color theory but know what feels right. That is the part that surprised me most. Once you slow down enough to listen, you realize how much the world notices. The man from the repair shop didn’t know anything about my plans for the wall, but he saw a shift in the posture of the shapes. That kind of reaction is valuable because it tells me how the piece meets the eye before any of the details are finished. I have come to believe that feedback like that holds just as much weight as something said by a trained artist.

One evening while working on another project, I took a break and sat on the tailgate of my truck, watching the sky fade into soft purple. I had been stuck on a section for hours, unsure whether to change the direction of a large sweeping line. A man who worked in the building came out to lock up and paused beside me. He said the line looked like it wanted to drift upward, not down, and for some reason that simple phrasing helped me see the moment where I had forced the angle too sharply. I don’t think he realized how helpful that was. He was just speaking from instinct. But it changed the way I finished the entire left side of the mural. I carried that thought with me for the rest of the project: let the line do what it wants to do.

Letting people offer small reflections has made me more flexible. I used to brace myself whenever anyone walked close enough to study what I was doing. It felt like opening myself to judgment. Now I treat those moments as part of the practice. The work lives in public spaces. It meets people before it meets critics. So their reactions matter. Their associations matter. Sometimes a person connects a color with a memory. Sometimes they see movement where I meant stillness. Their insights widen the possibilities of the piece. Even when I decide not to change anything, the act of hearing their thoughts shifts something inside me. It opens a window I didn’t know was there.

There was a young girl once, no older than nine, who stood beside her mother while I was finishing a mural outside a library. She watched the wall without saying anything for a long time, and then she asked why the trees looked like they were whispering to each other. The question made me smile because I had been struggling with the branches, trying to decide whether to make them sharper or softer. Hearing her describe them that way helped me see the movement I had accidentally created. I leaned into it. I softened the edges and let the branches bend as if they were leaning close to share a secret. It became one of my favorite parts of the piece, all because a child spoke without worrying about being right.

As the years passed, I began to notice something else. The more I listened to all these small voices around my work, the more I understood the difference between noise and guidance. Not every comment carries meaning, and not every suggestion needs to be followed. But the act of listening, really listening, changes the way you stand in front of a wall. It teaches you to pause before reacting. It teaches you to breathe before you make the next stroke. This shift in my mindset helped me move away from the old habit of defending every decision I made. Instead of bracing myself, I began to treat each reaction as a chance to learn something about how the piece lived outside of my head. Even if the comment didn’t make sense at first, I let it sit for a moment to see if it revealed anything useful.

There was a mural I painted outside a bakery that taught me a lot about this. It was a simple design, meant to brighten a corner that always felt a little dull. I spent one morning layering the main colors and trying to keep the transitions smooth. A man carrying a box of pastries stopped behind me and said the lower half felt too heavy. He didn’t mean it in a critical way. It was just a feeling he had. At first, I wanted to dismiss it because I liked the weight of the bottom section. But later that evening, when the shadows changed, I noticed what he meant. The darker tones made the mural feel anchored in a way that didn’t match the rest of the design. I didn’t lighten the entire area, but I softened a few spots to create more lift. The mural ended up feeling more balanced because of that brief exchange.

Another time, while I was working on a long stretch of brick on the side of a school, a teacher approached me during her lunch break. She said the shapes reminded her of students running down the hallway on the first day of classes. I had never seen the forms that way, but once she said it, I noticed the sense of motion I had built without meaning to. Her interpretation helped me lean into that energy. I sharpened some of the edges and brightened certain parts of the background to make the movement feel deliberate. She came back the next day and smiled when she saw the change. Moments like that remind me that the people who live with the mural every day often give the most meaningful insights.

Through all of this, I began to understand something about myself. When I was younger, I placed so much pressure on the finished product that I forgot about the experience of making it. I treated mistakes as failures instead of invitations to look more closely. Now I see the process differently. I see each stage as a chance to breathe, adjust, and respond. Critique taught me that. It taught me to see beyond the single moment of finishing a wall. It reminded me that growth happens in the tiny decisions, the quiet shifts, the gentle adjustments. I never would have learned that if I hadn’t started welcoming other voices into the work.

Even now, as a mid-career artist with years of experience behind me, I still have moments where I catch myself wanting to rush. Sometimes I stand too close to the wall, trying to force a section into place. When that happens, I remember all the small lessons people have shared with me over the years. I step back. I let the wall speak. And in that space, I find the same clarity that first drew me to murals when I was young. It is not about perfection. It is about connection. It is about letting the work meet the world and allowing the world to shape the work in return.

There was a mural I worked on near the old post office that gave me one of my clearest reminders about why I now lean on art critique instead of running from it. I had been at that wall for three long days, brushing in wide shapes and trying to settle the rhythm of the piece. The heat made everything feel slower, and I could tell I was starting to lose my sense of balance. A local painter named Margo stopped by on her walk and studied the wall without saying anything at first. When she finally spoke, she said the middle band felt like it was holding its breath. The phrasing struck me because it matched the tightness I had been ignoring. Hearing it said out loud brought the whole issue into focus, and it nudged me to rework the transitions until the piece loosened the way it needed to. Her note was simple, but it grounded me, the same way good critique always does when I let myself listen.

I have learned over time that the most helpful variation of feedback often comes when I least expect it. One afternoon I was rinsing brushes by the curb while the sun slid toward the horizon. A delivery driver stopped to watch the wall for a moment and said the colors felt like they were arguing with each other. I had never thought of it that way, but once he said it, I saw exactly what he meant. The warmer tones were fighting too hard with the cooler ones instead of folding together. That casual comment shifted the direction of the next few hours. I softened the contrast, eased one shade into another, and allowed the wall to find a calmer energy. His observation stayed with me, not because it was technical, but because it carried a kind of instinct I would have missed if I had tried to handle everything alone.

The beauty of moments like that is how they remind me to stop treating the mural as a problem to be solved and start treating it as something alive. When someone mentions a feeling the piece gives them, it helps me see what the work is communicating without me forcing anything. I think back to the younger version of myself who painted fast and quiet, shutting out anything that might slow me down. He would never have believed how much I now rely on the thoughts of people passing by. I used to think inviting someone into the process meant giving up control. Now I see it as widening the space the mural gets to live in. Each time someone speaks into the work, it gives me a chance to understand it from an angle I couldn’t reach on my own.

Sometimes I step away from the wall and just listen to the world around me for a bit. The traffic, the footsteps, the talk from people walking past; it all becomes part of the rhythm. When someone stops to share what they see, I treat it as part of that rhythm too. I never want to rely entirely on outside thoughts, but I don’t want to shut them out either. There is a balance I am always learning to keep. Painting big walls takes patience, and part of that patience comes from trusting the moments when a comment, even one said casually, helps me see something my own eyes missed. Those insights don’t replace my instincts. They help shape them, refine them, sharpen them. They make me a better listener, and in turn, a better painter.

And maybe that is why I feel more grounded in my work now than I did when I first started. I no longer measure the quality of a mural by whether I nailed the plan exactly as I imagined it. Instead, I measure it by how open I was to hearing what the piece needed along the way. The walls have taught me that good ideas don’t always come from the brush. Sometimes they come from the person who pauses for a second and sees the work in a way I didn’t. Those moments shape me more than I ever expected, and I carry them from one mural to the next like small reminders to stay humble enough to keep learning.

There was a long wall behind a hardware store where I spent almost two weeks layering colors, scraping them back, and trying to find the right flow. On the fifth day, I stepped far across the parking lot to look at the whole thing at once, something I try to do whenever I feel myself getting lost in the details. While I stood there, a woman pushing a cart full of paint rollers stopped beside me. She said the top section looked like it was caught between two moods. I didn’t fully understand it at first, but when I walked closer and studied the shapes again, I felt the same tension she had mentioned. That simple reaction worked almost like art critique even though she didn’t mean it that way. It helped me shift the colors so the upper half settled into a clearer direction. It reminded me that even quick comments can guide the work if I stay open enough to hear them.

Later that afternoon, a friend named DeShawn visited the site. He has a sharp eye and a gentle way of speaking, and I’ve learned to trust both. He studied the mural quietly and then pointed out a narrow band near the center that felt like it wanted more room to stretch. That phrasing hit me the same way earlier notes had: simple, but revealing. It was the kind of variation of feedback that doesn’t try to solve the problem for you but highlights an area you’ve been avoiding. I widened the band by just a few inches, and suddenly the entire rhythm of the wall shifted. It flowed with a kind of ease I had been chasing all week without realizing the solution was right in front of me.

Moments like that have taught me to welcome the unexpected. Sometimes the best guidance comes from someone who knows me well, and sometimes it comes from a stranger passing through. What matters is the willingness to pause long enough to consider the note. Earlier in my career, I would have brushed off most of these comments because I thought they would pull me away from my original idea. Now I see that listening doesn’t erase my vision at all. It sharpens it. When I step back with someone else’s thought in mind, it helps me see the edges of the piece more clearly. It shows me the spots where I forced something or held back when I should have leaned in.

There was one evening, just before sunset, when the whole sky turned this deep, dusty orange. I had been wrestling with a section that refused to settle no matter how many times I repainted it. A cyclist coasted to a stop behind me and studied the mural while catching his breath. He said the left side felt like a memory that hadn’t decided whether it was fading or returning. I don’t know why his words hit me the way they did, but they cracked something open in my mind. I realized I had been trying to make the shapes feel bold when they actually needed to feel soft. I spent the next hour easing the transitions and letting the forms drift into each other instead of pushing them apart. When I stepped back afterward, the wall finally felt honest.

That is the part of this work that keeps me grounded. The murals change me as much as I change them. Every day I show up with a plan, but the wall always has its own ideas, and so do the people who pass by. Listening to them keeps me steady. It reminds me to stay humble, to stay curious, and to remember that I am not painting alone. The world around me is always part of the process, and when someone shares what they see, it widens the path I’m walking. Even after all these years, I find new energy in that. It makes each mural feel like an unfolding conversation instead of a test I need to pass.

There was a mural on the west side of town that stretched across the back of an old furniture warehouse. The wall faced an open field, so the wind hit it hard throughout the day, carrying dust and little bits of dried grass that stuck to my wet paint if I wasn’t careful. I remember being halfway through a large curved form when an older man with a baseball cap wandered over from the bus stop. He stood beside me for a while without speaking, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Then he said the lower shapes felt like they were whispering underneath the louder ones. I didn’t know what he meant until I stepped back and saw the imbalance. His quiet comment worked like art critique even though it was just an observation. It helped me calm the top half and give the bottom more presence. Sometimes the simplest words turn into the strongest tools in my hands.

Later that same day, a young artist named Sofia stopped by to drop off some spare brushes I had left at a community event. She looked at the wall and said the color blend near the center felt restless. That phrasing stuck with me because it matched the feeling I had been trying to ignore. It was a variation of feedback I hadn’t expected, but it pushed me to rethink the transitions. I softened the edges and let the colors breathe into each other a bit more. The mural shifted into something steadier. What I appreciated most was how her note didn’t try to direct me. It simply pointed toward the place where I needed to pay more attention.

The sun set early that week, and each evening I found myself painting under the glow of a tall streetlamp. One night a woman walking her dog paused to look at the wall. She tilted her head a little, studying the shapes like she was trying to match them to a feeling. Then she told me the entire piece made her think of a road she used to travel when she was young, one that curved around a lake and carried a soft sense of expectation. I had never thought of the mural that way, but her memory made me see the shapes with a different kind of openness. I didn’t change anything based on her thought, yet it shifted my mood for the rest of the work. It reminded me that murals become part of people’s stories long before they are finished.

I used to tell myself that I needed to protect every decision I made on a wall, as if letting anyone else shape it would make it less mine. But when I look at how much my process has changed, I see how limiting that old mindset was. These days, when someone stops and shares what they see, I take a moment to absorb it before picking up the brush again. Sometimes I use their insight. Sometimes I don’t. But I always allow it to settle for a second, because I’ve learned that even comments I disagree with can reveal something about where my focus has drifted. The act of listening has become as important as the painting itself.

What grounds me most now is the feeling that each mural grows through a mix of intention and chance. I bring my vision, my tools, and my experience, but the world brings its own reactions, memories, and instinctive readings. When those meet in the middle, the work becomes fuller. I don’t think I would have understood that years ago, when I rushed through walls and brushed off any input that didn’t match my plan. But now, standing in the middle of a nearly finished piece with the smell of paint in the air and the sound of passing conversations floating around me, I feel a kind of calm I didn’t know back then. It comes from knowing I’m part of something bigger than a single design. It comes from letting the world shape the work as much as I do.

There was a long retaining wall near the river where I spent almost the entire month of May painting in slow layers, letting the shapes drift into place over time. On one of the cooler mornings, a cyclist stopped beside me, took a sip from his water bottle, and said the upper right corner felt like it wanted to lift instead of sink. I didn’t think much of it until later that afternoon when I stepped across the walking path and looked at the whole surface at once. He was right. The shading I had used pulled the eye downward in a way that made the mural feel heavier than I meant it to. His comment had the same honest clarity I’ve come to expect from art critique, even though it didn’t come from another artist. I lightened the section just enough to give it room, and the entire piece started breathing the way I had intended from the start.

Around the same time, a friend named Helena visited the site. She has a patient way of looking at things, almost like she’s waiting for the painting to say something before she speaks. After studying the wall, she told me that the long curve running through the middle of the mural carried a tone she described as uncertain. At first I wasn’t sure how to take that, but the more I stood with the note, the more I understood the variation of insight she was giving me. The curve didn’t know if it wanted to feel bold or gentle. I had rushed through that section and left it without a clear intention. Her thought nudged me to deepen parts of the line and soften others, letting it find its identity instead of forcing one onto it. It changed the whole center of the mural in a way that felt right.

Each day on that river wall brought someone new with a different angle of seeing. One evening, as the sky folded into soft purple, a father and his son paused near me while walking home. The boy stared at the mural for a long moment before saying the colors felt like they were leaning into each other instead of pushing apart. I had never framed it that way, but the phrase made something click. The mural had a sense of closeness that I had built without really noticing. That single observation changed how I handled the last layer of highlights. I let the tones melt together more, allowing the wall to hold that sense of connection the boy had described so naturally.

There were also days when the thoughts people shared didn’t lead me anywhere right away, but they still settled in my mind like little seeds. A woman who walked her dog past me every evening said the furthest edge of the mural looked like a place where light belonged. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, so I just nodded and went back to painting. But three or four days later, when I stepped back during sunset and the angle of the light hit the wall just right, I finally understood. There was a patch that looked dull compared to the rest. I added a gentle layer of warmth there, and suddenly the entire edge glowed with a quiet calm that tied the whole piece together. Her words found their place even after I had forgotten them.

By the time I finished that wall, I realized how deeply all these comments had woven themselves into my process. Some shaped the painting directly, while others shifted the way I looked at it. Each one added a new angle, a new tone, a new memory to the work. And I didn’t feel the need to hide from any of it. Instead, I felt grateful. Listening didn’t make the mural any less mine. It made it more. It helped me stay honest about what the piece needed instead of clinging to what I once thought it should be. When I stepped back on the final day and saw the whole thing stretching along the river, I felt that same grounded feeling I get when everything comes together through care, patience, and the courage to keep learning.

There was a mural I took on last autumn that stretched across the side of an abandoned print shop. The building had cracked windows and a roofline that dipped slightly, but the owners wanted something bright to help revive the block. I remember climbing the ladder early on the second morning, the air chilly and sharp, and hearing footsteps behind me. A man from the neighboring bakery stopped to watch. After a minute he said the lower shapes felt like they were drifting away from the rest, almost like they weren’t sure where they belonged. I stepped down and looked at the wall from his angle. He was right. The spacing was off, just enough to make the mural feel unsettled. His comment carried the same clarity I’ve learned to expect from art critique when it’s offered with honesty. I spent the next hour shifting those shapes until they felt rooted again.

Later that week, a former student of mine named Casey visited the site. She has a way of giving feedback that feels less like direction and more like opening a window. She studied the mural for a while, tracing the long lines with her eyes, and said the main arc felt like it wanted to lift instead of drop. It was a variation of insight I wouldn’t have found on my own. When I adjusted the arc with her thought in mind, it changed the whole energy of the mural. The shapes began to rise, carrying a sense of movement that hadn’t been there before. She smiled when she saw the shift, and it reminded me how valuable it is to hear from people who once learned from me. Their fresh view brings things I didn’t expect.

A few days later, a delivery driver paused on his route and told me the color of the far-left shape reminded him of the sunrise he used to see while working early shifts. I didn’t change anything because of that comment, but it gave me a feeling I carried through the rest of the week. His memory made me think about the way murals connect to people before they ever meet the final version. Even half-finished, a wall can trigger something familiar inside someone else. Those moments make the work feel less like a solitary task and more like a shared experience. Their stories become part of the paint, even if no one else knows it.

One evening, just as the sun dropped behind the buildings, a woman walking her dog stopped beside me and said the upper section felt like it was sighing. I laughed because I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but she meant it kindly. She said the shapes looked relaxed, like they had finally settled into themselves. I didn’t adjust the mural because of her thought, but I carried her description with me. It helped me approach the final details with a lighter hand. I softened a few edges and let the colors blend with a gentleness I hadn’t used earlier in the project. Sometimes the best guidance doesn’t push you to change anything. It just changes the way you feel as you work.

By the time I reached the last day on that print shop wall, I realized how natural it had become for me to listen without bracing myself. The comments, the reactions, the memories people shared — they all moved through the work in their own way. None of it took away my vision. If anything, it clarified it. I felt that familiar groundedness settle in as I cleaned my brushes and took one last look at the wall. The mural felt alive, shaped not only by my choices but by the world that passed through while I painted. That mix has become one of the strongest parts of my practice. It reminds me I don’t have to paint in a vacuum. I can let the world speak and still stay true to what the mural is meant to be.

There was a mural I worked on earlier this year that sat on the side of an old community theater. The building had chipped bricks and a faded marquee, but it carried a kind of charm that made me want to honor its history. On the third morning, while I was shading a long curve along the lower half, a man who lived across the street came over with a cup of coffee in his hand. He said the center section looked like it was trying to speak but hadn’t found its voice yet. I knew exactly what he meant the moment he said it. His comment carried the same simple honesty I’ve come to trust from art critique, the kind that doesn’t dress itself up as instruction but still lands in the right place. I adjusted the transitions in that section, letting the tones settle more gently, and the whole wall started to feel clearer.

Later that afternoon, my friend Lila stopped by. She works mostly in charcoal and has a careful way of looking at things that always slows me down in a good way. She stared at the wall for a long time without saying anything. Then she told me the upper shapes felt like they were waiting for a breeze that hadn’t arrived yet. It was a variation of feedback that made perfect sense once I stepped back and studied the rhythm. The shapes were too tense. I softened a few curves and adjusted the spacing so the top could feel lighter, like it had room to move. Her note didn’t tell me what to do. It helped me see what the mural wanted to become.

Throughout that week, people continued to stop by with their own impressions. A teenager carrying a skateboard said the colors reminded him of the way the sky changes right before a summer storm. A woman who worked at the corner shop said the far-right shape made her think of a curtain lifting. A bus driver who passed the wall every day told me the lines made him feel like the mural was stretching awake. None of these thoughts were technical, but each one shifted something small in my mind. When I returned to the wall each morning, I saw pieces of their words echoed in the shapes and colors. It didn’t change the plan. It changed the way I understood the plan.

One moment that stayed with me happened near the end of the project. I was working on a tall section that curved along the side of a window. A little girl walking with her grandfather stopped and stared at the mural for a long time. When her grandfather asked what she saw, she said the painting looked like it was humming. I don’t know why, but her observation made something warm settle in my chest. I didn’t change anything because of it, but it reminded me why I started painting big walls in the first place. Murals aren’t just seen. They’re felt. And sometimes the smallest voices understand them best.

By the time I finished the theater wall, I realized how much the world had shaped that piece without ever taking control of it. Every comment, every memory someone shared, every passing thought that drifted toward the work — it all became part of the surface in some way. Not because I followed every suggestion, but because listening keeps me honest. It reminds me to stay open, to stay curious, and to remember that art lives in the space between intention and response. When I packed up my supplies on the final afternoon and looked at the mural glowing in the late sunlight, I felt that familiar sense of gratitude. The work was mine, but it carried traces of everyone who spent even a moment with it.

On the final morning of a mural I finished last month, I arrived before the traffic picked up and the street was still a little empty. I stood across from the wall with a thermos of coffee, letting the early light make everything softer. I could see the places where I had struggled, the places where I paused, the places shaped by the small reactions people had shared. A man walking his dog stopped beside me and asked if I planned to add anything else. I told him I was almost done, just giving myself time to see if anything called out for another layer. He nodded and said the whole piece looked like it had finally taken a deep breath. His words felt like the last puzzle piece snapping into place. They helped me recognize that the mural didn’t need more. It needed space to be finished.

Once I climbed the ladder for the final check, I noticed one small area near the top where the shading still felt a touch too stiff. It was subtle, but I could feel it. I used a softer mix of color and let the transition ease outward. That simple adjustment carried the last bit of grounding I had been looking for. It also reminded me how much I rely on the quiet confidence that comes from years of listening, from letting the right kind of variation of feedback shape my instincts. I no longer paint like someone trying to outrun doubt. I paint like someone who understands that doubt can be part of the process if you meet it with patience.

These days, when people ask what changed the most in my career, I tell them it was learning to welcome art critique in a way that felt human instead of harsh. It steadied me. It taught me to see what the wall is trying to say instead of forcing my own story onto it. And if anyone wants to understand how helpful good critique can be, I always point them to art critique because it shows how thoughtful guidance can open up space you didn’t even know you needed.