Returning to the studio after a week away.

Returning to the studio after a week away feels like quenching a deep thirst. My time in Portugal, surrounded by that luminous sun, reminded me how light can cut through layers of mental clutter and awaken something essential within.

Back in the studio, I was eager to begin — I didn’t have a clear subject in mind, only a strong need to draw. I reached for Indian ink and let the stick meet the paper directly. Each mark became a trace of that urgency — every hesitation, every burst of energy, indelibly recorded.

When I draw with Indian ink, I often use a large bamboo stick instead of a traditional brush. The distance it creates between my hand and the paper helps me see the whole composition more clearly — it encourages broader gestures and keeps me from getting lost in small details.

Working this way feels closer to sculpting than to drawing. I build the figure gradually, shaping it through layers of balanced marks. Because ink allows no corrections, each line becomes a commitment — a permanent impression on the paper. In that sense, the finished work feels almost cast rather than drawn, like a bronze sculpture fixed in its final form.

The finished piece was an ink drawing on A3 paper — a head facing forward with a calm, confident expression. It took many layered marks to reach that sense of composure and depth.

After stepping back and reflecting on the work, several possible titles came to mind: High Soul, The Gaze Unmoved, among others. I ultimately chose Gaze Unmoved.

I prefer short titles, almost like song titles — something that offers a small entry point into the work rather than an explanation. For me, a title should guide the viewer gently without limiting interpretation. In this case, Gaze Unmoved felt right. The head looks straight ahead — calm, noble, and timeless.

Creating art, for me, has never been about rushing. I value giving each piece the time it needs—working free from external pressure and in quiet disconnection from the world beyond my studio walls. When I’m fully immersed in the process, time seems to dissolve. I become absorbed in the deliberate rhythm of making, where every movement feels intentional and present.

Once a work reaches completion, it feels as if that instant of creativity has been sealed in time. This is one reason I’m drawn to working with indelible Indian ink. Each mark, every subtle gesture, is fixed permanently—there’s no erasing, no second attempt. I love this immediacy. Ink demands honesty; it becomes a direct trace of thought and action in the moment.

My influences have always been diverse and evolving: from the sculptural intensity of Rodin and the conceptual resonance of Beuys, to the physical expressiveness of Butoh dance and the raw, DIY spirit of the punk movement. Growing up in Manchester taught me that creativity thrives not through resources, but through passion and persistence—the belief that something meaningful can always be made from very little.