Walking through Paris, one begins to notice something before the monuments, before the museums, even before the cafés: art is everywhere, and it is not hiding. Small galleries line ordinary streets. Temporary exhibitions appear in public squares. Artists display their work in open spaces without fear of being questioned, shooed away, or treated as a nuisance. Art here does not feel like an elite indulgence; it feels like a normal part of civic life.
During the past few days, I have wandered through several galleries — some well-known, others barely larger than a living room — and lingered at open exhibitions where painters, photographers, and sculptors quietly showcase their work. What struck me most was not the price of the art or the sophistication of the audience, but the ease with which artists occupy space. In Paris, art does not wait for permission. It exists because the system expects it to exist.
In one modest gallery, I watched a young painter explain his work to a couple who had clearly walked in on impulse. Later, as we exchanged a few words — the kind of casual conversation that happens when art is not treated as a crime — he said something that stayed with me. “I don’t need to be wealthy to be an artist here,” he remarked. “The system doesn’t crush you before you even begin.” It was not a boast; it was a statement of relief.
That relief is institutional. France does not rely on luck or private charity to keep its artists alive. The French state, both at the national and municipal level, treats art as cultural infrastructure. Galleries receive support. Public spaces are deliberately allocated for artistic expression. Artists are recognized as professionals, not as hobbyists or social irritants. Grants, residencies, and municipal exhibitions exist not to create celebrities, but to create continuity.
At another gallery, a staff member explained — again, in a tone so matter-of-fact it felt almost boring — that their role was not only commercial.
“Selling art is important,” she said, “but keeping artists working is more important. If they disappear, the culture disappears with them.” This is a mindset almost entirely absent in Pakistan, where cultural policy is often reduced to symbolism and slogans.
The French government does not micromanage artistic content, nor does it turn art into a propaganda tool. Instead, it builds a framework where artists can survive long enough to develop a voice. Public exhibitions rotate quietly. Municipalities fund cultural centers without demanding ideological obedience. The state does not ask artists to justify their existence every month. That, perhaps, is the most radical support of all.
The contrast with Pakistan is painful.
In Pakistan, artists operate in a state of permanent uncertainty. Studios close not because talent runs out, but because rent does. Galleries survive through personal sacrifice, not public policy. Public art is either over-regulated, politicized, or viewed with suspicion. An artist working in an open space in Islamabad or Lahore is far more likely to be questioned than appreciated. Cultural expression is tolerated only when it fits a narrow definition of acceptability.
We celebrate our artists in speeches and abandon them in reality. We invite them to perform at state events, but we do not build systems that allow them to live with dignity. Art is treated as decoration for elite evenings, not as a profession that deserves long-term support. When funding does appear, it is episodic, opaque, and often tied to connections rather than merit.
In Paris, I saw artists of varying levels — emerging, mid-career, obscure — all operating within a structure that did not require them to beg for legitimacy. One scissor artist exhibiting his art in a public space at Place du Tertre, Montmartre told me, in passing, “Even if nothing sells this month, I know I’m not invisible.” That sentence alone explains the difference between a functioning cultural ecosystem and a broken one.
Pakistan’s failure is not a lack of talent. Anyone who has spent time in our art schools, music circles, or literary gatherings knows this. The failure lies in the absence of policy, consistency, and respect. We expect artists to survive on passion alone, while surrounding them with bureaucratic hurdles, moral policing, and financial neglect.
There are three clear lessons Pakistan can learn from the French model, without copying it blindly or compromising cultural values.
First, space is policy. France gives artists physical space — galleries, plazas, cultural centers — and protects that space. Pakistan, by contrast, restricts public expression and then wonders why culture retreats into private drawing rooms. If artists have nowhere to exist, they will eventually disappear.
Second, art must be treated as work, not ornamentation. French artists are workers within a recognized sector. Pakistani artists are too often treated as entertainers, rebels, or luxuries. Until we recognize artistic labor as legitimate labor, we will continue to lose talent to frustration, emigration, or silence.
Third, consistency matters more than spectacle. France funds culture quietly and continuously. Pakistan funds culture occasionally and loudly, usually around national days or high-profile events. Art does not grow through sporadic applause; it grows through sustained support.
As I walk back through Paris in the evening, passing yet another small gallery preparing for a modest opening, I am reminded that none of this is accidental. It is the result of decades of policy choices that placed culture alongside infrastructure, not beneath it. The difference between France and Pakistan is not creativity or intelligence. It is seriousness.
Pakistan does not need grand cultural revolutions. It needs a basic decision: whether art is something we merely tolerate, or something we are willing to protect. Until that decision is made, our artists will continue to struggle — not because they lack ability, but because the state lacks commitment.
And that is a failure no amount of rhetoric can hide.
