Steal Like an Artist

What's inside (8 sections)

1. Nothing comes from nowhere, so steal in the open
2. You will find yourself by starting, not by waiting
3. Make what you wish existed, then get your hands dirty
4. Keep playful side work, and show your progress in public
5. Go somewhere new, and stay kind when you get there
6. Keep life steady so the work can be strange, then remove more than you add
7. Key takeaways
8. FAQ

I picked up this book because I kept hearing the title in conversations about creative work, and I wanted to know what it actually told people to do. The copy I read is the small illustrated edition from 2012, published by Workman Publishing Company, about 160 pages long. You can finish it in an afternoon. That short length is part of the point. Austin Kleon started with a talk he gave to students at a community college in upstate New York in 2011, built around ten things he wished someone had told him when he was starting out. The talk spread online, and he grew it into this book with drawings, lists, and short chapters. It later became a New York Times bestseller.

My first surprise was how plain the advice is. There is no secret method here. Kleon says out loud what many working artists know privately, that creative people borrow constantly, and the job is to borrow well. My second surprise was how much I liked the physical feel of the argument. He draws his points. He shows his notebook pages. He tells you to keep two desks, one messy and one tidy. It reads like notes from a friend who makes things for a living and wants you to start too.

What follows walks through his ten principles in the order he gives them, with room to agree, push back, and say who might want something else.

Nothing comes from nowhere, so steal in the open

The first principle is the title itself. Steal like an artist.

Kleon is quick to say he does not mean plagiarize, skim, or rip off. He means study, credit, remix, and transform. Nothing is fully original. Every new idea is some mix of older work, and honest artists admit their debts. He quotes the old line often tied to Picasso about good artists copying and great artists stealing, then gives it a practical shape. Pick heroes. Learn what they took and who they took it from. Follow those threads back and build a family tree of influences.

I found this freeing. When I was younger I thought having influences meant I was unoriginal. Kleon turns that worry around. He says the way to sound like yourself is to steal from many directions at once. If you take from one person, people call it theft. If you take from five or six, mix the parts, and add your own questions, people call it style. The difference is breadth plus real work.

His habits for this are simple. Carry something to catch ideas. Keep what he calls a morgue file, which is really just a folder for clippings, photos, quotes, and scraps that catch your eye. Write down who made each thing so you can credit them later. When you admire something, ask what exactly you admire. Is it the color, the pacing, the joke structure, the way a chapter opens. Naming the part helps you learn it instead of just copying the surface.

There is a genealogy image in the book that stuck with me. He draws how ideas pass from person to person across time. It looks less like a straight line and more like a tangled set of roots. That picture helped me stop asking where truly new work comes from. Better to ask what I am mixing right now, and whether I am mixing enough different things.

A fair note here. This chapter can sound easy if you already have time to read and wander through libraries and record shops. If you are working two jobs, theft of this kind still happens, but it happens in smaller scraps. Kleon would probably say small scraps still count. I think he is right, though the book could say more about that.

You do not need to be a genius, you just need to be yourself.

That line gets repeated a lot, and in context it means something specific. Stop waiting for permission from talent. Start with curiosity about other work and let your own pattern show up through the mixing.

You will find yourself by starting, not by waiting

The second principle answers the most common stall. Do not wait until you know who you are to get started.

Kleon argues that identity follows action. You make things, you notice what you keep returning to, and over time that pattern becomes your voice. Waiting to feel ready just burns months. He suggests a playful version of pretending. Dress like the person you want to be. Copy the routines of people you admire. Learn to see the way they see. At first you imitate. With practice you move from imitation toward emulation, which means you grasp the reason behind their choices and can make your own versions.

One exercise I actually tried was copying by hand. He tells readers to copy a favorite paragraph or draw a version of a favorite image, not to publish it, but to feel the decisions inside it. I copied a page I liked from another writer, word for word, in a notebook. It was slow. I noticed sentence lengths I had skimmed over when reading normally. I noticed where the writer paused and where they rushed. Typing would not have taught me the same thing.

He also warns against hiding behind learning. Reading about painting is not painting. Watching talks about novels is not drafting pages. Schooling yourself through other work matters, but only if the schooling ends in something you made. A useful test he implies is whether you ended the week with an object, a page, a sketch, a recording. If not, you probably consumed more than you produced.

This part hit me because I spent a long time collecting advice before I allowed myself to claim any label. Kleon gives you a way out. Call yourself what you want to become, then do the daily work that earns the name. Some readers will find that corny. I found it practical, because other people start treating you like a photographer or a writer once you show up with photos or pages, and that response speeds up the learning.

If there is a weak spot, it is that pretending can slide into performance. Posting the costume without doing the practice fools no one for long. Kleon knows this, which is why he keeps tying the chapter back to output. Pretend in the direction of work, not in the direction of applause.

Make what you wish existed, then get your hands dirty

The third and fourth principles belong together. Write the book you want to read. Use your hands.

The third idea is short and sharp. Forget the old classroom rule about writing only what you know. Instead, notice what is missing for you as a fan. What book do you keep looking for on the shelf. What show do you wish someone would make. What tool or comic or song would solve your own problem. Then try to make that thing. Your taste is the guide. You are the first audience.

I like this because it replaces a vague duty with a clear question. It also explains why Kleon trusts obsessions. He says to follow what pulls you, even if it seems scattered. One interest leads to another, and the crossing point can become your subject. A person who loves maps, jokes, and local history might make funny illustrated walking guides. No teacher would assign that mix. It only appears when you follow your own reading list.

The fourth idea is physical. Step away from the screen and make things with your body. Kleon keeps two work areas in his studio. One is digital, for typing and layout. The other is analog, for markers, paper, scissors, and mess. Moving between them changes how he thinks. Screens invite endless tweaking. Paper invites quick tries. He made his Newspaper Blackout poems by taking a newspaper and crossing out most of the words with a thick marker until a small poem remained on the page. That project began as play and later became a book of its own.

I tried a smaller version. I printed a draft, spread the pages on the floor, and marked them with a pen instead of scrolling. My attention moved differently. I saw repeats I had missed. I also felt less precious about cutting. Screens make every sentence look finished. Paper reminds you that ink can be crossed out.

There is science talk around this topic that Kleon keeps light, and I am glad he does. He does not claim handwriting rewires your brain in some grand way. He just says full body work keeps you engaged. Shuffle cards. Pin images to a wall. Build a rough model from cheap materials. Let your hands find problems your eyes skipped.

Together these two chapters make a loop. Taste points to the missing thing. Hands build a rough version. Eyes check the gap. Repeat. If you only do the first half, you become a critic of your own cravings. If you only do the second half, you stay busy without direction. Kleon wants both.

Keep playful side work, and show your progress in public

The fifth and sixth principles form the social half of the book. Side projects and hobbies are important. The secret is to do good work and share it with people.

Start with play. Kleon treats side projects as food, not dessert. A hobby gives energy instead of taking it. It lets you try styles you would avoid in paid work. It keeps you company during dry stretches. His own blackout poems began with no client and no plan. He shared them online, strangers responded, and the response taught him what was working. Without that unserious start, the later books might not exist.

I keep one project that earns nothing, and I protect it more than I used to after reading this book. Mine is a small collection of notes about street signs and shop lettering in my neighborhood. No one asked for it. That freedom lets me test layouts and jokes I would cut from client work. Twice now, a trick I learned there solved a problem in paid work. Kleon would nod at that. He says practice in the margins often becomes the center later.

The sixth idea is the one people quote most, and also the one that needs care. Share your work where others can see it. Keep a log. Post sketches, drafts, reading notes, and finished pieces. Tell people what you like and why. Over time, sharing teaches you to finish, because an audience waits, and it teaches you to notice, because explaining your taste forces you to sharpen it.

Kleon wrote this when blogs and early social feeds felt hopeful. Reading it now, in a louder and harsher online world, I read his advice with a filter. Share, yes, but choose the room. A small newsletter, a class, a local group, or a quiet site can give you honest response without the worst parts of the big platforms. He is not asking you to post every hour or chase trends. He is asking for a steady public record. A page that shows what you made this month and what you are reading beats a silent hard drive.

There is also a practical side to credit here. When you share, name your sources. Link the artist, the writer, the photographer. That habit returns to the first chapter. Open thieves get forgiven and often get introduced to new collaborators. Silent takers get caught and lose trust.

If you are shy, start small. Post one finished thing each week and one note about something you admire. Answer comments with thanks instead of long defenses. Ask one real question when you need help. That rhythm builds a circle slowly, which lasts longer than a spike of attention.

Go somewhere new, and stay kind when you get there

The seventh and eighth principles move outward. Geography is no longer our master. Be nice, because the world is a small town.

Travel, in Kleon, does not have to mean expensive trips. It means changing what your eyes meet. Take a different route to work. Spend a month in another town if you can. Visit a library across the city. Talk to people outside your field. He says travel makes the world look new, and when the world looks new, your brain works harder. New streets force fresh comparisons. Even mild discomfort wakes you up.

Constraints count as travel too. A hard winter that keeps you inside can push a burst of studio time. A small apartment can force you to work in a sketchbook instead of big canvases. A slow internet connection can return you to paper. I spent one rainy week redrawing old ideas at a kitchen table because the power kept cutting out in my workroom. The redraws were simpler and better. I would not have chosen that limit, but the limit chose useful work for me.

The eighth idea sounds soft and turns out to be strategic. Be nice. Ignore public fights. Praise work you admire. Make friends instead of collecting contacts. Kleon says the art world, and really any creative field, behaves like a small town. People remember who shared credit, who showed up, who answered email with care. They also remember who picked fights for attention.

He is blunt about anger. If you feel rage at the state of things, turn it into making. Write the sharp essay. Draw the poster. Build the alternative. Feuds eat the hours you need for practice. He also tells you to stand near talent without clinging. Find people a step ahead, learn from them, thank them in public, and pass what you learned to someone newer. That chain builds a durable scene around you.

I have seen this work in plain ways. A short thank you note to a writer whose zine I liked led to coffee, which led to a small show where I pinned up prints. None of that required charm. It required attention and follow through. Kleon also warns, fairly, that kindness is not weakness. You can say no, charge properly, and leave rooms that treat people badly. Nice means steady and generous, not open to every demand.

Read together, these two chapters push you to widen inputs and keep outputs friendly. New places supply material. Good conduct keeps doors open so the material can travel.

Keep life steady so the work can be strange, then remove more than you add

The last two principles close the loop. Be boring, because it is the only way to get work done. Creativity is subtraction.

Being boring sounds like an insult until Kleon explains it. Save the wildness for the page. Keep the rest of life calm enough to work. Get sleep. Keep a routine. Stay out of debt if you can. Keep a day job as long as you need it, because a steady check can fund risk on the canvas. He is suspicious of the myth that great work needs chaos. Chaos mostly produces missed deadlines and tired minds.

I needed this chapter. My most productive stretch last year came when my days looked dull from outside. Same wake time. Same walk. Same desk order. Bills paid from steady work. Inside that frame, the drafts got stranger and braver. There was energy left over because I was not solving small fires all day. Kleon is not praising a dull mind. He is praising a stable container.

Money talk here is brief and worth quoting in spirit. Do not borrow to look successful. Keep expenses low so you can say no to bad jobs. Learn enough about budgets and schedules to protect morning hours for the real project. None of this guarantees comfort. It raises your odds.

The final principle is my favorite sentence in the book. Creativity is subtraction. In a time of endless feeds and limitless options, focus beats volume. Choose what to leave out. Set limits on purpose. Work in a small format. Use three colors. Write short chapters. Give yourself a deadline that forces choices. Kleon says nothing freezes people like boundless possibility. A tight frame starts movement.

His examples are concrete. Limit tools so skill can grow. Cut chapters that do not serve the core. Leave white space on the page. In my own drafts for this summary, I cut two long asides about apps and productivity systems because they pulled away from the human habits Kleon stresses. The piece got shorter and clearer. That is subtraction doing its job.

Now for honest pushback, since the book invites plain talk. This is a short manifesto, not a manual. It skips hard cases. It says little about caregiving, chronic illness, or jobs with unpredictable hours, where routine is hard to hold. Its sharing advice was written before current platform shifts, so you will need to adapt it to smaller rooms and messier feeds. Some chapters restate familiar sayings without fresh proof. Readers who want studies or step by step systems may find it thin. The illustrations, which I enjoy, also pad a text you could read in one sitting.

None of that ruins the book. It just sets its place. If you want a friendly push to start, a reminder to keep a notebook, share your tries, stay kind, live steadily, and cut the clutter, this is a strong shelf companion. If you want deep craft instruction in a single medium, pair it with a focused guide in that field. Kleon gives you posture and momentum. Teachers and practice give you chops.

I closed the cover feeling nudged rather than lectured. My morgue file has grown. My side project has a weekly slot. My desk has paper on it again. That seems like the right test for a book of this kind. Not did it impress me, but did it change what I did the next morning.

FAQ

Is the full title Steal Like an Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative?

Yes. The publisher lists the title as Steal Like an Artist with the subtitle 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative. The JSON uses the short title, matching site convention.

Where did the book come from?

It grew from a 2011 talk Kleon gave to students in upstate New York. The talk spread online, and Workman Publishing Company published the expanded illustrated book on February 28, 2012.

Does its advice about sharing work online still fit today?

Partly. Its sharing advice was written for the early blog era, so use smaller rooms like newsletters or local groups now. The core habits of keeping a log, crediting sources, and posting steadily still hold.