There’s a certain seriousness that can settle over creative work if you’re not careful. You start out making something for the joy of it, but somewhere along the way, you begin to hear the questions: What are you going to do with it? Are you going to sell it? Are you trying to go full-time?

There’s an unspoken message beneath those questions: unless your art is producing income, it’s not “real.” Unless it’s deep or dramatic or politically urgent, it’s not important. Unless it’s being seen or sold or published, maybe it doesn’t count.

I don’t believe that.

I believe there’s a quiet, essential power in creating something just because. Just because it’s joyful. Just because it makes someone laugh. Just because you couldn’t not make it. Even if it’s a little weird. Even if it’s wildly impractical. Even if it’s… a life-sized needle-felted Baby Yoda.

This is the Way

Back when the Mandalorian was still in its first season and the world hadn’t yet caught up with the overwhelming cuteness of Grogu, I was commissioned to make one for a nominal fee by a fellow Star Wars fan. Not a plushie. Not a figurine. A full-size, hand-felted Baby Yoda.

There were no patterns. No tutorials. No kits or pre-made accessories. I started with what I knew—needle felting—and made the rest up as I went. I sculpted his head and features by hand, carefully layering shades of green and adding subtle variations to give his skin that worn, otherworldly look. I gave him glass eyes and that slightly worried, slightly curious expression we all fell in love with. Then, I designed and sewed him a coat from scratch—complete with weathering, folds, and just the right amount of oversized collar.

Baby Yoda waiting patiently for his body.

I didn’t make it because I thought it would sell like hotcakes. It didn’t—don’t come for me, Disney. I didn’t have a business plan. I wasn’t trying to break into the collectible doll market. He was never going to sit on a gallery pedestal. I just… really wanted to make him. And I wanted to see if I could.

Whimsy as Our First Language

Before we learn to write our names or tie our shoes, we draw. Toddlers—with crayons or chalk gripped in full fists—cover pages, sidewalks, and walls with unfiltered color. Lines go nowhere. Faces melt into scribbles. The point isn’t precision but joy. They draw with complete freedom, oblivious to critique, immune to self-consciousness.

That is creation in its most human form.

We’re born to make marks. To shape, to decorate, to mimic, to invent. The impulse to create lives in us before we have language for it. And the desire to make something that sparks joy—to draw a cat with ten legs or a dragon wearing a party hat—isn’t childish. It’s true.

I’m reminded of that every time I make something that exists purely because it delighted me to do so.

Tiny Footsteps and Big Impressions

More than twenty years ago, I visited the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City. I still think often of one particular artifact I saw there: the Codex Boturini, a pictographic manuscript documenting the Mexica people’s migration from Aztlán.

What I remember most? Tiny footsteps.

Across the pages, little footprints march between hand-drawn scenes, guiding the viewer through the story. It was playful, almost whimsical—and yet deeply meaningful. A child could follow it; so could a scholar. It didn’t need words to lead you.

Page from the *Códice Boturini,* or Codex Boturini. You can view the full manuscript at archive.org.

That image has stayed with me all these years. It reminds me that whimsy has always had a place in human storytelling. That joy is a kind of meaning.

When Art Is Play

Somewhere along the way, many of us get the message that “real” art has to be serious. That it needs to be deep or tragic or laborious to be valid. That cute is frivolous. That fun is a phase, or that whimsy is indulgent.

But the truth is, whimsy has always had a place in art. The oldest textiles feature fanciful motifs, exaggerated animals, and bright, joyful colors. The marginalia of medieval manuscripts are full of little creatures. Folk art is bursting with humor, exaggeration, and delight. Art history is full of makers who played, who laughed, who let their curiosity guide them even when it didn’t “make sense.”

Whimsical margin art from a medieval manuscript. Image source.

Whimsy isn’t shallow—it’s a form of connection. A way to say, this made me smile, and I hope it makes you smile, too. It bypasses pretension and goes straight to the part of us that still wants to be surprised.

The Pressure to Monetize Everything

We live in a culture that loves a side hustle. If you’re good at something, people will tell you to open an Etsy shop, sell patterns, or go pro. And if that’s what you want—wonderful! There’s nothing wrong with turning a passion into a business.

But not every act of making needs to lead somewhere profitable. Not every project has to be “productive.” Some things are worth doing because they light you up. Because they restore your creative rhythm. Because they remind you that you’re allowed to play.

When we lose that, we lose something vital. We begin to see our creativity only through the lens of output and income. We begin to hesitate before trying something new because we can’t see how it “fits.” We talk ourselves out of projects that are too silly, too strange, or too joyful.

But here’s the thing: sometimes those are the projects that bring us back to life.

Whimsy as Process, Not Escape

Creating something whimsical isn’t about avoiding depth. It’s not the absence of meaning—it’s a different kind of meaning. One that embraces lightness and honors curiosity. One that lets go of outcome and allows for wonder.

When I made Baby Yoda, I wasn’t ignoring the world. I was entering into it in a different way. I was noticing texture, and proportion, and expression. I was thinking about how we bond with fictional characters, and how faces convey emotion, and how storytelling extends into craft. I was fully immersed. I was in the process.

And that’s what I want more of—for myself, and for others. I want us to make things that don’t have to defend themselves. I want us to say yes to ideas that seem a little absurd. I want us to let creativity be light sometimes—not as a way of avoiding seriousness, but as a way of balancing it.

“I want us to make things that don’t have to defend themselves. I want us to say yes to ideas that seem a little absurd.”

If someone sees your work and laughs with delight, or says “oh my gosh, that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen”—you’ve done something real. You’ve stirred emotion. You’ve invited them into your creative world.

Joy is a legitimate outcome. So is awe. So is play.

Not all art needs to be gallery-worthy. Not every piece needs to carry a thesis. Sometimes, it just needs to remind someone that they’re human. That there’s still softness. Still delight. Still a moment of “look what someone made with their hands.”

Give Yourself Permission

So here’s my invitation to you: make something silly. Make something tiny and delightful and completely impractical. Something your 9-year-old self would enjoy. Make something that makes you giggle while you work on it. Something that you don’t have to show anyone—or something you can’t wait to share. Just… make.

You don’t need a business plan. You don’t need a reason. You don’t need to be taken seriously to be taken meaningfully.

Sometimes, the most freeing thing you can do for your creativity is let it be light. Let it be weird. Let it be yours.

Whimsy isn’t the opposite of art. It is art.

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If you’re in the Philadelphia, PA area and need guidance to start or rekindle your creative journey, contact me and let’s work together!

I believe in slow craft, real connection, and thoughtful conversation. If something in this post sparked a question or memory, reach out—I’d truly love to hear from you. -Karri

The Power of Whimsy: On Creating Just Because