Being authentic as an artist might seem obvious, but what does it really mean? The first thing that comes to mind for me is that I base 90% of my work on my own photographs. As a result, my images and paper cuts depict people and places I have personally encountered. They are, in a way, documentary in nature, but they also capture the emotions, atmosphere, colours, and thoughts I perceive—or wish to see—in them.
At its core, my art is about sharing my individual perspective on the world. I find beauty in everyday moments and transform them into works of art. It brings me joy when viewers are able to see this beauty more clearly through my work. The feeling is similar to that of a small child who proudly runs up to their mother, exclaiming, "Look what I found!"
When I’m creating, I rarely think about authenticity. Alone in my studio, I choose my subjects and explore the best way to bring them to life. I can do whatever I want. I can simply be. The only limits are my own abilities and the properties of the colours I use.
The only times I’ve consciously questioned authenticity were during group exhibitions built around specific themes. In 2013/14, I participated in a large project with wonderful colleagues on the First World War. I had no personal connection to the topic and struggled to find a meaningful approach. Then, by chance, I came across a collection of field post stamps. Something about them fascinated me, and they became the basis for my first Paper Cuts. That series remains significant in my artistic journey, but looking back, I find the works rather heavy and not truly reflective of my voice. Since then, I’ve always felt a certain unease about creating art on assigned themes—it doesn’t come naturally to me. Yet, these projects can be wonderful opportunities to expand one’s artistic horizons.
This question of authenticity also came up with my pixel portraits of the Queen. These works weren’t based on my own photos, but they were deeply connected to my experiences. I painted them in Australia in 2011/12, where the Queen’s image was omnipresent—on banknotes, coins, TV screens, even home décor. Around the same time, the royal wedding of William and Kate dominated the media, and I found myself intrigued by all the grandeur surrounding this iconic figure. Meanwhile, I was also captivated by the vibrant, mystical quality of Aboriginal art, with its bright acrylic colours on black-primed canvas. My pixel portraits emerged naturally from these overlapping influences. In that sense, they were authentic—an intuitive response to my surroundings.
I never struggle with a lack of ideas. If anything, there’s never enough time to bring them all to life. Some concepts lose their momentum before I can realise them, making space for new inspirations to take centre stage.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the idea that artists are merely midwives to ideas—that these images already exist in the space around us, waiting for someone open and receptive to bring them into the world. When inspiration strikes, it feels like a moment of clarity, as if we’ve been “kissed by the muse” or received a sudden download of creative energy. And if we don’t act on it in time, the idea moves on to someone else.
I find this thought liberating. It means I don’t have to worry about being extraordinary. My job is simply to do the work with joy and let others decide how they see it.
That brings me much closer to the original spark of creation. Let’s see what I’ll find and share next.
PS: Did you check out the Pixel Portraits already?
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