Art Was Never Meant to Be Quiet

Art has always been about expression. About taking what's brewing inside and giving it form; on canvases, through movement, in music, in words. It’s how we process pain, celebrate joy, and demand change. But above all, art is about humanity. The most raw, vulnerable, rebellious parts of it. And in a world where humanity itself has become a matter of debate, division, and control, how can we ever claim that art is free?

Is art radical? It always has been. Art is the voice of the unheard, the scream of the silenced, the protest of those too broken to march but too aware to sit still. You think of art as pretty pictures on gallery walls, or choreographed performances in theaters with velvet seats and intermissions. But those are just distractions—the real art lies in graffiti on cracked walls, in poems scratched onto school desks, in trembling hands painting truths no one dares to speak. You can’t separate art from the world because the world has never separated itself from people. And art is people. Messy, aching, furious people.

Society keeps telling us to keep art "neutral", as if neutrality were ever real. As if silence isn’t a choice. As if turning away from injustice isn’t an act in itself. Dancers are told to “just move beautifully,” writers to “avoid controversy,” musicians to “focus on the melody.” But when your very breath feels like borrowed air, how do you not use your voice? When your stories are erased, your language mocked, your dances judged, how do you stay neutral? When joy in your culture is seen as rebellion, your existence becomes an act of defiance. Should acceptance from society govern the acceptance of my art?

Last row- left most- Otto by Neeraj Lohani; middle- Ekaant by Jainil Mehta

Here’s the thing: Art itself was never meant to be contentious. It was meant to be human. But who gets to create it? Who gets a platform, who gets funding, who gets heard; that’s where the injustice creeps in. Art doesn’t start as a battleground. But when only certain people are allowed to express, when others are denied the mic, the pen, the camera, the spotlight, then expression becomes resistance. The act of showing up with your full self becomes a statement. The real issue isn't what’s created: it's who’s allowed to create.

And maybe it is rebellion. Maybe every brushstroke is a rebellion against erasure. Every lyric, every performance, every photograph—proof that we were here. That we mattered. That our pain was real, and so was our resilience. And that angers people, doesn’t it? Because art doesn’t ask for permission. It demands space. It dares to feel. It tells the stories that people want erased. And when that story challenges the system, they don’t call it "art" anymore; they call it dangerous, disruptive, divisive.

When a marginalized artist builds a fantasy world where people like them aren’t just surviving but thriving, that is radical. When you’re told, over and over, that you don’t belong here, sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is imagine a place where you do. And of course, someone always wants to censor it. Clean it up. Make it quieter. But truth doesn’t come quietly. It comes jagged. It comes loud.

So yes, art is charged. Because it has always spoken when words failed us. It has always risen when we were pushed down. And maybe that’s what terrifies them the most: that art can’t be caged. That it slips through barbed wires and filters, and firewalls. That no matter how tightly you try to contain it, art will find its way into someone’s soul, ignite something deep, and make them question. And questioning? That’s where revolutions begin.

As a dancer, I’ve lived this. I’ve carried stories in my spine—some mine, some borrowed, all felt. I’ve turned sorrow into softness, joy into rhythm, confusion into quiet stillness that somehow said more than words ever could. Dance has never just been released; it’s been returned. A return to myself. To the truth. In rooms where my voice trembled, my body knew exactly what to say. Through every reach, every pause, every grounded breath, I’ve stitched together who I am and who I’m becoming. The world has often tried to tell me what kind of artist I should be—what kind of girl, what kind of path. But I’ve chosen movement as my rebellion, my prayer, my home. And each time I follow what’s real over what’s expected, I remember: this is more than performance. Its presence. It’s power. It’s art.