Where My Ritual Begins
Every artwork I create begins long before the first line touches the canvas. My process starts in a quiet emotional space, where intuition feels sharper than language and colour appears in my mind long before form does. I don’t treat making art as execution; I treat it as invocation. Something internal calls for shape, surface, movement or light, and the act of creating becomes the way I answer it. My process is not linear. It unfolds like a ritual: small gestures repeated, textures built in layers, colours introduced when they feel ready, not when they are planned. Each step carries its own emotional charge.
Layering as Emotional Architecture
When I begin a piece, I rarely know what it will become, but I always know how it should feel. The early layers are where I set the emotional tone. Soft gradients, grains of noise, blurred shadows, gentle shifts of darkness — these create the atmospheric ground where the main symbols will later appear. As I stack textures and colours, I feel the artwork deepening, almost like a breath slowing into the body. Layer by layer, I build a kind of internal architecture. What appears simple on the surface often holds many emotional strata below it. I let the piece grow at its own pace, because the layering itself teaches me what the artwork wants to express.
Gesture as Intuition in Motion
My hand always reveals things before my mind does. When I draw a curve, a fragment of light, a spiralling line or a botanical mark, I follow an instinctive impulse rather than a predetermined plan. These gestures behave like signals from deeper emotional layers. A sweeping stroke might express release. A tight curve might express hesitation. A repeated line might suggest obsession or the comfort of pattern. When these gestures accumulate, they form an emotional rhythm, something that feels alive inside the artwork. This is why I think of gesture not as technique, but as instinct in motion.
Colour as Emotional Manifestation
Colour enters the process when the artwork begins to speak back to me. I never impose a palette; I discover it. Sometimes soft black appears first, shaping the threshold between what is visible and what is hidden. Sometimes neon pink or acidic green demands attention, activating the space with urgency or heat. Sometimes a muted tone settles over the piece like a veil, giving everything a sense of quiet. Each colour behaves like an emotional entity. It transforms the atmosphere instantly. When I choose a colour, I am choosing a feeling. When I blend contrasting hues, I am exploring the tension between emotional states. Through colour, the artwork becomes a manifestation of what was previously internal.
Texture as Memory
Texture is the part of my process that feels the most like memory. Grain, haze, layered gradients, diffused edges — these elements embody the imperfections and echoes that live inside the psyche. When I add texture, the artwork begins to feel lived-in, as though it has already passed through time before reaching the viewer. Texture softens sharp emotions, deepens quiet ones, and creates spaces where the eye can rest or wander. It makes the image feel human. It becomes the sediment of everything I have felt during the making. Through texture, the artwork holds its own history.
Symbols Emerging from the Depths
My symbols — eyes, petals, seeds, serpentine lines, hybrid botanical curves — never appear all at once. They rise gradually from the layered atmosphere, revealing themselves when the emotional ground is ready. An eye might surface as a moment of clarity. A glowing seed might represent something beginning to awaken. A twisted floral shape might express a contradiction or tension. I do not “place” these symbols; I uncover them. They emerge like subconscious images rising to the surface. When they appear, the artwork becomes a dialogue between the seen and the felt.
The Moment of Shift
There is always a moment in my process when the artwork shifts from exploration to manifestation — a point where I feel something click energetically. It is rarely dramatic. Often it is a small adjustment: a final glow, a darkened corner, a softened edge, a new line that changes the emotional direction. This moment feels like recognition, as if the piece finally reveals what it was trying to become. I experience it as a subtle internal shift, the sensation that something has found its place. From there, the rest of the work becomes refinement rather than discovery.
Making as Emotional Integration
What fascinates me most about my process is how creating integrates emotions I didn’t know needed expression. Through ritualistic repetition — adding, erasing, softening, intensifying — I transform feelings into symbols and atmospheres. The artwork becomes a container where I can witness my own inner movement. It becomes a map of emotional truth, expressed not through language but through line, colour, texture and light. Each completed piece holds a part of this integration. It carries both the tension and the softness, the question and the answer, the shadow and the glow.
Why Process Is My Ritual of Manifestation
For me, making art is not an act of decoration or representation. It is a form of emotional manifestation. It allows me to give shape to what has no shape, to reveal what lives below thought, to honour what memory alters or hides. My process is how I translate intuition into form. The ritual of making is how I listen to myself. Through layering, gesture, texture and light, I allow the artwork to become a living reflection of the inner world — a quiet ceremony of transformation.
In the end, every piece I create is a ritual object. It contains the process that made it: the whispers, the tensions, the small awakenings. And through that process, emotion becomes visible.
