When I visited the Édouard Manet exhibition in Chicago a few years ago, I started to understand something — even though Manet would eventually come to be known as the father of impressionism, a lot of his work towards the end of his life was simply painting what he saw outside his window, as he was sick and unable to leave the house. Those works later came to be part of his canon, part of what he left behind for the world.
This reminded me that art is simply the story every day people try to tell of their every day lives.
History can decide later on whether that is officially “art”, but that’s not relevant to us at all.
Therefore everyone can begin to make art, art that belongs first of all to ourselves, by simply painting what we see outside our windows.