There’s a way of looking that doesn’t judge or categorize. That doesn’t aim to control, but to understand. This is curiosity. A living, gentle attitude that brings us closer to things with the desire to go deeper—not to dominate, but to be more connected.
Curiosity is not just asking questions. It’s a way of inhabiting the world. Of staying permeable, attentive, open to what we don’t yet know. And in the creative process, this is essential. Without curiosity, we shut down. We repeat ourselves. We become technicians of our own craft. But when curiosity is present, the path remains alive.
Creating from curiosity means asking questions without demanding immediate answers. It’s looking at a texture and allowing yourself to be surprised. It’s listening to a mistake and wondering what it has to say. It’s accepting that not everything needs a clear meaning to hold value. Curiosity doesn’t impose. It observes. It listens. And in doing so, it opens windows we didn’t know existed.
This attitude helps us move beyond ourselves. It invites us to look at what surrounds us as if it were new—even the familiar. That’s why it has something in common with contemplation: it doesn’t seek utility, but relationship. Connection. A way of saying, “I’m here and I want to understand better what’s in front of me.”
Curiosity sustains us in times of uncertainty. When the path becomes unclear, when we don’t know how to continue, instead of freezing, we can ask: “what if I try something else?”, “what happens if I let this rest?”, “what’s behind this impulse?”. Instead of forcing, we open. Instead of closing off, we explore.
It’s not an impatient stance. On the contrary: it moves slowly, like a child discovering the world with no rush. Like an artist who, before expressing, wants to listen. And that gives depth to the gesture, the stroke, the decision.
Perhaps the one who best captured this silent, deep curiosity was Giorgio Morandi*. With his simple life and his work obsessively focused on a few forms in a single space, he’s a pure example of this attitude. Day after day, he looked at the same objects with renewed attention. He wasn’t seeking spectacle or novelty: he was seeking to understand more deeply the relationship between things, between what he saw and what he felt. His curiosity was persistent yet discreet. He didn’t aim to explain anything. Just to look. And look. And look again. Perhaps, in the end, all he was doing was asking the same question over and over from different angles: what’s here that I haven’t yet seen?
Curiosity doesn’t only point outward. It also invites us to look within: what’s happening in me now? Why this color? Why this silence? What if I just let it be for a while? It’s a form of intimacy with the process, a constant dialogue with what emerges.
Cultivating curiosity means, ultimately, trusting that the world —and our gesture— still have something to say. And wanting to listen. Not to have all the answers, but to keep opening windows.
[*] You can explore one of his still lifes here: https://artsandculture.google.