Can great art still be discovered in the age of Instagram?

Instagram has probably done more for independent artists than any gallery, publisher or institution ever could. TikTok is the same.

That might sound like an odd thing to say from someone building a platform outside social media, but I genuinely believe it’s true.

For the first time, artists no longer needed permission to be seen. They didn’t have to wait for a gallery to discover them or rely on being in the right place at the right time. They could share their work directly with thousands of people, build communities around their practice and, in many cases, make a living doing what they loved. There’s also the add-on of being able to share themselves, their personality, and an insight into their artistic process. That’s an extraordinary shift, and one that shouldn’t be underestimated.

Many of the artists I admire today are people I would never have discovered without Instagram. In many ways, it has opened up the art world. It has made it feel less exclusive and more democratic. It has allowed people working quietly from spare bedrooms, garden studios and shared workspaces to find collectors all over the world.

Somewhere along the way, though, I think we stopped asking whether social media was helping us experience art or simply consume images. They’re very different things. One invites contemplation; the other rewards momentum.

A painting isn’t designed to be seen for two seconds between a holiday reel and a recipe video. It isn’t created to compete with hundreds of other images fighting for our attention.

Art asks something quite different of us. It asks us to slow down. Pause. Breathe. Observe. Be.

One of the things I’ve loved most about buying original art is how differently you experience it once it enters your home. A painting that you’ve walked past every day for six months can suddenly catch your attention because the light has changed, or because you’ve changed. You notice a brushstroke you hadn’t seen before. A colour feels different in winter than it did in summer. Good art doesn’t reveal itself all at once. It rewards attention.

That’s almost the opposite of how we experience it online.

I’ve also found myself thinking a lot about what social media now asks of artists.

For previous generations, the work was the work. Today, the work often feels like only half the job. Alongside making paintings, artists are expected to photograph them beautifully, film themselves creating them, edit videos, write captions, understand algorithms and post consistently enough to remain visible. For some, that’s an enjoyable part of the process. For others, it can feel as though they’re spending almost as much time producing content as they are producing art.

Perhaps the biggest change of all is that artists are no longer just sharing their work; they’re sharing themselves. We don’t simply buy a painting anymore. It’s a remarkable thing. Never before have we had such access to artists as people. We know what they drink for breakfast, what music they paint to and what their dogs are called. That closeness can make collecting feel more personal than ever before. But I sometimes wonder whether we’re also asking artists to perform a version of themselves that keeps the algorithm happy.

There’s an irony in asking artists to constantly interrupt the very process that produces the work. Painting often requires long periods of concentration, experimentation and even boredom. Social media rewards almost the opposite: speed, consistency and visibility. Those two mindsets don’t always sit comfortably together.

The irony is that Instagram has never made it easier to discover an artist for the first time, but it hasn’t necessarily made it easier to build a lasting relationship with their work.

You come across an artist whose work stops you in your tracks. You save the post, perhaps follow the account, and promise yourself you’ll come back to it. Six months later, you can’t remember their name. The work has disappeared beneath thousands of other images, and unless the algorithm decides to show it to you again, the connection is lost.

I spent two decades working in marketing, so I understand why these platforms work the way they do. Their job isn’t to help us contemplate; it’s to keep our attention. They’re extraordinarily good at that. But optimising for attention isn’t the same as creating space for appreciation.

Every image now competes with every other image. Art isn’t just competing with other artists; it’s competing with everything else the internet has to offer. A painting that may have taken months to create appears in the same feed as babies laughing, football highlights, recipes, political debate, holidays and cat videos. It’s hardly surprising that we’ve become better at scrolling than stopping.

That’s a shame, because I don’t think discovery should be accidental.

The more artists I’ve met over the past couple of years, the more I’ve realised that many of them are experiencing exactly the same tension. Instagram has helped them find an audience and they’ll always be grateful for that, but they’re beginning to outgrow it. They want somewhere their work can exist beyond the lifespan of a post. Somewhere people can understand their practice, see a body of work together and discover them because of the quality of what they make rather than because a particular Reel happened to perform well. Almost every artist I speak to mentions the algorithm eventually. Not with anger, but with exhaustion.

At the same time, I’ve spoken to plenty of people who would love to buy original art but have no idea where to begin. Galleries can still feel intimidating if you’re new to the art world, can feel ‘out of reach’, while large online marketplaces can be overwhelming. Large marketplaces solve one problem by offering almost limitless choice, but they create another. Faced with thousands of artists, it’s difficult to know what you’re looking at. Is this someone building a serious artistic practice, or someone generating decorative images to meet demand? Quantity doesn’t necessarily create confidence.

The more I think about it, the less convinced I am that what we’re missing is another marketplace. I think what we’re missing is better curation.

Before algorithms, discovery was largely human. We trusted the taste of a bookseller, a gallery owner, a journalist or a friend. We weren’t looking for the biggest catalogue. We were looking for someone whose judgement we respected.

Algorithms are incredibly good at showing us more of what we’ve already liked. Curators do something much more interesting. They introduce us to things we didn’t know we were looking for.

I don’t think Instagram is going anywhere, nor should it. It remains one of the most important tools available to artists today. But perhaps we’ve reached the point where social media no longer needs to do everything. Perhaps its role is to introduce us, while other spaces help us deepen that relationship.

That’s certainly the question I’ve been asking myself while building Trasna. Not how to replace Instagram, but how to build on everything it has made possible. How to create a place where artists can be discovered, where collectors can browse without feeling overwhelmed, and where original art is given the time and space it deserves.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the past few years, it’s that the best discoveries are rarely made in a hurry.

Perhaps that’s what I’ve been circling around while building Trasna. Not how to compete with Instagram, but how to complement it. How to create a place where discovery feels slower, more intentional and more human.

Social media has transformed the way we discover art. I wouldn’t want to lose that. But perhaps the next chapter isn’t about helping us discover more.

Perhaps it’s about helping us discover better.