The Secret Lives Of Stickers: A Classic Medium Is Helping Homegrown Artists Thrive

I first fell for stickers in the most embarrassing way possible. I was ten, in a stationery shop, when I saw a shiny set of puffy dolphin stickers. They were glittery, cartoonishly cheerful, and absolutely hideous — but in that moment, they felt like the Mona Lisa of adhesives. I slapped one on my school notebook, feeling wildly creative. By the end of the day, half the class had them stuck on their arms, faces, and even the teacher's desk. My masterpiece, however, didn’t survive long. My mom scraped it off, muttering something about "tacky dolphin nonsense".

But even then, I realized something: stickers had power. They could travel, provoke, and create moments of connection. Stickers, I learned, were a little act of rebellion. Now, walking down Chapel Road, surrounded by lampposts layered with stickers — some peeling, some pristine — that same mischievous joy returns.

Stickers arrive unnoticed, but carry the weight of something more. They are art that doesn’t wait for you to enter a gallery or turn a page. They inhabit the everyday, whispering stories — on laptops, notebooks, water bottles. There was a time when art demanded stillness from its viewers — a landscape framed on a wall, a sculpture poised in its permanence. But stickers live differently. They travel. They inhabit spaces that are transient, noisy, alive. They are the art of movement, of migration.

In a way, stickers are the descendants of cave paintings. The artist was unseen, but the intention — the reaching out — was clear. Stickers do much the same. They carry messages, though fragmented. A phrase here, an image there. They leave traces to create a fleeting intimacy with the passerby. I remember walking down Chapel Road, where lampposts had become mosaics of paper and glue. Layers of stickers — peeling, overlapping, defiant — told a story of years gone by. A bold black-and-white face stared out, weathered by the sun. Below it, a neon pink cartoon peered from beneath a torn corner. Who had placed these here? And why? The stickers said nothing directly, yet they spoke volumes.

Unlike paintings, which hold their ground, stickers follow us. They cling to our belongings, embedding themselves in our routines. Through these journeys, they transform, becoming part of the objects they inhabit. I’ve often wondered about the sticker on my own laptop. It’s by a homegrown artist — a cat with a bird perched on its head. The edges have started to fray, and yet, the cat endures, a quiet companion. In this small way, the sticker has become part of me. It is no longer just the artist’s work. It is ours, shared in this strange intimacy of ownership.

There’s something about a sticker that resists the polished precision of the digital age. It is imperfect, tactile, messy. Even when mass-produced, stickers often retain the echo of the artist’s hand — the scratch of a pen, the smudge of ink. This imperfection becomes especially important in a time when AI-generated images flood our screens. AI art dazzles with its capacity for mimicry, its ability to churn out beauty on demand. But it cannot replicate the intention behind a sticker. It cannot understand why an artist chose to draw a cat with a bird on it or why someone else felt compelled to stick it on their laptop. Stickers remind us that art is not just about what is created, but about who creates it, and for whom.

Stickers redefine the relationship between artist and collector. Where once art was commissioned by the wealthy and displayed in private halls, stickers democratize this exchange. Anyone with a few rupees can own a piece of art, carry it, and display it. The beauty of stickers lies in their refusal to be contained. They exist in a world without walls, free from the hierarchies of galleries and the gatekeeping of critics. A sticker does not ask for permission to be seen. It simply is.

As I write this, my own sticker collection sits in a drawer. Each one carries a memory: a sticker from a bookstore in Barcelona, another from a street artist in Mumbai. They are fragments of my life, but also of the lives of the artists who made them. Perhaps that is the secret of stickers. They are not just art, they are connection. In their small, adhesive way, they remind us that art is not something distant or lofty. It is something we carry with us, something we live with, something we touch. The sticker endures, peeling away the boundaries of what art can be.

Check out some of my favourite homegrown sticker artists:

Jay Pimpalkhare (@jaydrawstring)

Deesha (@deesha.pdf)

Akhshitaa (@akhshitxx)

Kartika Bagodi (@crisprocks)

Jai 'Zaiu' Ranjit (@artwithzaiu)

Vanshika Jain (@sketchyxbehaviour)

Gublichandji Buginath (@quietkook)

Aleesha Nandhra (@aleesha_n)

Panisthi Vora (@panisthi_vora)

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