Why We Still Crave the Tangible
Last week I kept my boys home from school and surprised them with a day at SeaWorld. Sometimes you have to break up the monotony and do something fun just for the sake of it. We went to the shows and the rides, but our last stop was the Wild Arctic, where the boys stood mesmerized before a massive walrus gliding between glass and sea.
It was breathtaking. Then my oldest asked, “Is that real or is that A.I.?”
My eyes went wide in shock — but I realized what he meant. The walrus was so extraordinary, so alive, that he wondered if something that amazing could even be real. It struck me — life can be so beautiful it feels too good to be true.
Still, his question stayed with me. The world we live in constantly pulls our attention toward the digital. And now, with A.I., the artificial can sometimes seem more enticing than our real, three-dimensional lives.
Now more than ever, there’s a certain ache that lives inside all of us — a longing for what’s real. Not the pixelated version, not the endlessly scrolling feed, but something with weight. Something that resists being swiped away.
I’ve often thought that’s why we collect art, or press flowers, or keep a box of letters tied in ribbon. These small acts are ancient — things humans have done for millennia. They remind us that beauty is meant to be experienced, literally felt — not mentally digested and tossed aside.
In an age where everything is optimized for speed, the tangible feels almost rebellious. It asks us to slow down, to let our senses catch up with our thoughts. The computer cannot replicate the minerally smell of oil paint or how paper absorbs a brushstroke unevenly. It cannot recreate the truth that our human experience is rooted in the material.
When I paint, I’m aware of that dialogue between my hand and the medium. I’m in a world made for my senses while also trying to create a new one — a world of beauty and magic that still mirrors this one. There’s something spiritual in that process that technology will never touch.
Sometimes I think about how future generations might look back and wonder about us — the artists, the makers, the letter writers. Amid all our brilliance, we still wanted to hold things. We still filled shelves with books, printed photographs, and sent little parcels through the mail. Why?
Because the tangible carries presence. It bears the imprint of its maker, the imperfections of its journey, the scent of a season. You can’t bookmark that.
I’ve noticed that when someone stands before a painting — really stands — something changes in them. Their breath slows. Their shoulders drop. The body remembers it’s allowed to feel. For a moment, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is simple recognition: I’m here. I’m alive.
That, to me, is the magic of art. It’s not just pigment or paper or wax or wood — it’s a portal. A meeting place between spirit and form. A reminder that beauty, once seen, takes root inside us.
Maybe that’s why, no matter how advanced we become, we’ll always crave what can be touched. The letter that creases in our hands. The brushstroke that carries the weight of another’s heart. The art that calls us back, again and again, to what’s real — this living, breathing, gloriously human life.
— Michaela
P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to bring that feeling — of beauty you can hold — back into our lives. One small way I’m doing that is through The Studio Post, a letter from my studio that arrives by mail, not algorithm. Click below to sign up and receive yours.