Where sunsets merge with mountains, figures emerge from watercolor washes, and cafe conversations reveal the invisible architecture of opportunity
It started with this sunset sketch—a simple wash of yellow against blue mountains that reminded me of a conversation I had with my old professor at NID. She once told me that the mountains we climb in life often aren't chosen by us but are determined by where we're born, who raises us, what schools accept us.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately: how people born into privilege often lack the toolset to make the difficult choices necessary to truly prosper. When everything comes easily, you never develop the muscles needed for struggle. They wait for handouts while insisting they're self-made, like mountains claiming they rose from flatlands through sheer determination.
I was lucky. Not privileged in the traditional sense, but lucky to have encountered teachers who recognized something worth nurturing. Teachers who pushed me to develop those mental and creative muscles when the world wasn't handing me anything.
These figures emerged during a long afternoon at MYRIADE, where I sat watching people come and go, their bodies telling stories their mouths never would. The woman in pink, leaning with such careful attention over her laptop—her posture spoke of someone accustomed to being watched, evaluated. The two figures in blue tones near the bottom, their conversation animated but their bodies carefully maintaining space—the invisible boundaries of strangers.
I wonder how many of us move through the world with these invisible boundaries, these careful distances determined by our backgrounds? The privileged move with certainty, taking up space without question. The rest of us calculate each gesture, each claim to space.
The cafe became my studio for a week. I found myself particularly drawn to the contrast between those who appeared comfortable in this space—the regular with his laptop who never ordered more than one coffee but stayed for hours—and those who seemed to apologize with their bodies for taking up space—the elderly woman who kept her coat on despite the heat, who gathered her belongings close as though expecting to be asked to leave.
These differences in how we occupy public space aren't accidental. They're trained into us. The privileged are taught the world is theirs to claim; the rest of us are taught to be grateful for whatever corner we're allowed to inhabit.
This series on fragmented bodies began as an exploration of form but evolved into something more psychological. The red circle—initially just a compositional element—came to represent the spotlight of expectation, of evaluation. The figure curls around it, both embracing and resisting its
I think about how many of us live our lives this way, contorting ourselves around expectations we didn't choose. The privileged among us often mistake these contortions for natural postures—they've never had to bend themselves to fit into spaces not designed for them.
The blue and red line studies happened accidentally—I had two pens and kept switching between them as I tried to capture the rapid movements of people through the station. What emerged was this unexpected layering, these people existing in two color dimensions simultaneously.
It reminds me of the parallel lives we lead—the public persona and the private struggle. Some people are born into worlds where these two lives align easily. Their authentic selves are valued, their struggles recognized. The rest of us learn to live with the dissonance of these parallel existences, switching between them like I switched between pens.
In making these sketches, I keep coming back to that philosophy professor who changed my trajectory. He wasn't from my world. He spoke a language of ideas I barely understood at first. But he saw something in my crude early sketches that I couldn't see myself.
In making these sketches, I keep coming back to that philosophy professor who changed my trajectory. He wasn't from my world. He spoke a language of ideas I barely understood at first. But he saw something in my crude early sketches that I couldn't see myself.
That's the thing about privilege—it's not just about material advantages. It's about having people who can see your potential before you can, who have the language to name what you're reaching for, who can guide you toward tools you didn't know existed.
I wasn't born with privilege, but I was given something perhaps more valuable: teachers who provided me with the toolset to navigate a world that wasn't designed for me. They taught me not to wait for handouts but to build with whatever materials were at hand. They showed me how to see opportunity in constraints.
Looking at these sketches now, I see their influence in every line—not in the style or technique, but in the very act of observation. They taught me to really see the world, not just look at it. And in seeing it clearly, to find my place within it—not the place assigned to me, but the place I chose to claim.
Until next time,
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