When I started painting, I never thought I’d return to something as simple as markers. I used to associate them with childhood — with the early days of drawing on paper that curled at the edges. But over time, I began to realize how much honesty there is in that simplicity. Markers don’t pretend. They stain the surface immediately. There’s no going back, no soft blending, no hiding behind texture. Every line is a decision.
That rawness became essential to my outsider style. It mirrors the kind of energy I want my work to have — immediate, unfiltered, imperfect. I use fine liners to build structure, to outline thoughts that feel almost nervous. They trace the rhythm of my hand. The markers, meanwhile, flood the forms with emotional temperature — neon, acid, earthy, sometimes metallic. Together, they create a visual language that feels both graphic and alive, like folklore reimagined through the lens of modern psychedelia.
The Ritual of Drawing
My process is slow and rhythmic. I begin with thin lines, almost like writing. There’s something meditative in repeating small patterns — petals, eyes, or serpent shapes that seem to grow across the surface. I work in layers, shifting from precision to spontaneity. Fine liners are my spine — they hold the structure. Markers are my bloodstream — they carry the emotion.
I think of the drawing process as closer to embroidery than painting. Every small gesture is a stitch. The repetition of dots and curves becomes a kind of chant. When I use black liner to edge a leaf or an eye, it feels like sealing it — giving it boundaries before I let color dissolve them again.
This tension between containment and release is important to me. It’s what gives the works their pulse.
Building Symbolism Through Technique
The motifs I return to — eyes, petals, serpents, faces — are part of a larger symbolic language that developed naturally over time. When rendered in liner and marker, they lose realism but gain personality. The “eye-flower” becomes a hybrid creature, half organic, half spiritual. The tendrils that grow from its stem resemble nerves or roots — reminders that everything alive is connected, conscious, sensing.
I like how the graphic contrast of black ink against fluorescent color exaggerates this feeling. The forms look almost alive, like they’re vibrating. That’s what I mean when I describe my art as “outsider” — not in the academic sense, but emotionally. It resists perfection. It’s intuitive, obsessive, sometimes unsettling.
Markers allow me to layer symbolic rhythm — bright colors sitting next to muted, matte backgrounds. The fine liner, with its precision, adds a feeling of ritual geometry, like a coded map of emotions.
The Role of Color and Imperfection
One thing I love about using markers is how unpredictable they are. They bleed. They overlap unevenly. Sometimes two colors collide and create something unexpected — a halo, a bruise, a sudden softness inside a harsh form.
That imperfection feels human. In fact, it’s part of my aesthetic philosophy: beauty in imbalance. The glowing colors against dark outlines remind me of sacred icons, folk tapestries, or tattooed skin. They carry traces of the handmade, the physical.
When I look at the finished pieces, they often feel like pages from a modern-day bestiary — flowers that can see, creatures that listen, emotions that take shape. Each one is alive with tiny imperfections, like nervous systems drawn in ink.
Why This Technique Fits My Voice
For me, the combination of liner and marker is not just about materials; it’s about the kind of honesty they demand. There’s no undo button, no blending to hide behind. Every line is an act of faith. That’s probably why I return to these tools again and again. They make me feel connected to drawing as a ritual — something instinctive, ancient, and personal.
When people call my style “graphic” or “outsider,” I take it as a compliment. It means the work feels a little untamed, that it doesn’t fit neatly into trends. The colors might be too loud, the symmetry too strange, the symbolism too direct. But that’s exactly what I want — art that feels alive, slightly off-balance, and fully human.
That’s the power of markers and liners for me. They don’t just shape my images. They shape my rhythm — my way of seeing, of breathing through the act of drawing.
