Key Takeaway:
Animals, including birds and whales, have been questioned about their artistic abilities. Some argue that art is about emotion, representation, or intention, while others believe it comes from reinforcement. However, not all animal creations are considered art. Some, like Humpback whales and Pigcasso, are trained to express their creativity, while others, like puffer fish, build intricate mandalas to attract mates. Most animal art seems tied to reproduction, but the real test would be to find an animal creation that is sentimental, symbolic, or emotionally complex. The question remains whether we too are animals, as beauty and expression have always been part of nature’s mating dance.
Somewhere deep in the forests of eastern Australia, a male satin bowerbird obsessively arranges twigs into a precise little corridor and surrounds it with anything blue he can find—bottle caps, flowers, stolen scraps of plastic. It’s not for shelter. It’s not for food. It’s for love. Or at least, for sex. But is it also… art?
This question isn’t just the whimsical musing of a nature lover—it’s a genuine philosophical debate. The idea that animals might be artists challenges our assumptions about what art is, who makes it, and what it’s for. After all, if a bird’s blue bower or a whale’s haunting song stirs emotion, evokes beauty, and is meant for an audience, then isn’t it ticking some of the same boxes as human art?
The problem is, art itself is a moving target. There’s no universally agreed-upon definition. Scottish philosopher W.B. Gallie famously called it an “essentially contested concept”—a phrase that means we’re probably never going to settle the debate. Some say art is about emotion (Tolstoy), others about representation (Plato and Aristotle), and some insist it must come from intention. That last part complicates things—can a bird intend to create beauty, or is it just blindly obeying instincts?
And yet, communication doesn’t always require intention. Fireflies flash for mates. Dogs learn the sound of a food bowl. These aren’t “art,” but they are messages. Philosopher Brian Skyrms argues that meaningful signals can emerge from reinforcement, not complex thought. That’s where the debate cracks open: if beauty can come from behaviour evolved for survival, does that disqualify it from being art?
Biologist Richard Prum thinks not. He suggests art—even animal art—can be judged by its beauty and its success at seduction. Charles Darwin agreed, noting that the female bird’s preference for elaborate displays must mean she sees something worth admiring. And really, how different is that from the tortured painter or the guitar-slinging rockstar trying to impress the crowd—and potential partners?
But not all animal creations make the cut. A spider web, no matter how symmetrical, is function first. Same goes for most anthills. The question is: where does functionality end and expressive creativity begin?
Humpback whales complicate things. Their mating songs are long, patterned, and distinct to each population, evolving over seasons like a jazz standard. They seem built for more than just utility—they echo with beauty, complexity, and culture.
Then there’s Pigcasso—a pig from South Africa who was trained to paint. Her trainer picked the colours, but she controlled the brushstrokes. The art sold. It made headlines. Was Pigcasso just a trickster with treats as motivation, or a genuine artist with a snout for expression?
Off Japan’s coast, male puffer fish build intricate sand mandalas to attract mates. They dig, design, and craft massive symmetrical circles. Critics argue it’s all hardwired instinct. But how is that so different from human artists following their own evolved desires, social patterns, and shared aesthetics?
And consider the blue manakin. These birds form troupes to rehearse choreographed dance routines. Yes—rehearse. They practice, correct errors, and even substitute stand-ins to perfect their performances. If that’s not a boy band, what is?
Still, most animal “art” seems tightly tethered to reproduction. The real test would be to find an animal creation that’s sentimental, symbolic, or emotionally complex—something less about sex and more about soul. We haven’t yet. But absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence. Maybe they are expressing something. Maybe we’re just not listening properly.
At the end of the day, perhaps the most uncomfortable thought isn’t whether animals are artists. It’s whether we, too, are animals—singing, painting, and performing, not because we’re so different, but because beauty and expression have always been part of nature’s mating dance.
