Column: Not all art needs an audience

There’s a particular kind of freedom in doing something for no reason at all.

I felt it one night when I picked up my guitar after months of letting it collect dust. I wasn’t rehearsing for a performance. I wasn’t recording a cover. I wasn’t trying to get better at anything.

I just played — plucking at chords, letting my fingers stumble through half-remembered songs. It was messy, unpolished and entirely for myself. Yet it was the most I’d enjoyed playing in a long time.

I've been missing that feeling of doing something purely because it makes me happy. I’ve spent most of my life in creative spaces that were structured and performance-driven, dancing and singing with competitive teams. These experiences have been rewarding, no doubt. But it often makes me wonder how often we abandon creative outlets without an audience.

UNC is a place that rewards high achievement. It’s full of people who are constantly working toward something — an internship, a leadership position, an award, a polished resume. In that environment, hobbies that don’t "lead anywhere" start to feel like a waste of time. 

Often, if we can’t commit to an official art-related team or club, our artistic sides fade into the background. Even within competitive artistic spaces, the focus is commonly on winning, not simply enjoying the craft.

While these environments can be deeply fulfilling, they can also make it hard to separate art from achievement. This mindset extends far beyond campus. We live in a world where hobbies aren’t just hobbies anymore. They’re content. 

Social media has blurred the line between personal and public creativity. If you play guitar, you have to post a cover. If you thrift, start reselling on Depop. If you journal, start a Substack.

There’s an unspoken pressure to share, document or optimize everything we do. Some of this is harmless; posting a song or sharing a painting can be a fun way to connect with others. But over time, this shift changes how we approach creativity. Once there’s an audience, the hobby feels different.

For many people, the answer is to stop altogether. Because now, instead of being an escape, the hobby feels like work. I felt this most when I was learning guitar. I wasn’t amazing at it, but I loved playing. I’d sit in my room, messing around with chords, learning bits of songs. But suddenly, playing wasn’t just playing: it was about being good enough to be seen. And when I felt I wasn’t good enough, I stopped playing.

Doing something you're mediocre at is liberating. In a world that constantly pushes us to be good at everything, to improve, to turn our hobbies into marketable skills, there’s a quiet joy in having something that’s just for you — something you’re not trying to monetize, showcase or perfect.

Some of the happiest people I know have hobbies they keep entirely private: a friend who writes poetry but never shares it, a classmate who paints just to relax, a roommate who dances just for themselves. 

It’s easy to let go of things that don’t feel like they have a purpose. It’s easy to convince yourself that if you’re not good at something, it’s not worth doing. It’s easy to let hobbies slip away in the face of career goals, competition and the pressure to always be improving.

But the moment you stop doing things purely for the joy of it, the world becomes a little smaller. Let yourself be creative without judgment, without an audience, without an end goal. Because the real tragedy isn’t being bad at something — it’s letting the fear of being bad keep you from doing it at all.  

Tonight, I’ll be picking up my guitar again. Not to record, not to improve, but simply just to play.

@dthopinion | opinion@dailytarheel.com