There’s something quietly magical about carving into Lino. It’s slow, tactile, and wonderfully imperfect. Every gouge is deliberate, every mark a decision you can't undo—and I love that.

I didn’t set out to become a printmaker. But over time, I realised I was craving something more grounded—something that pulled me out of screens and into my senses. Linocut offered that pause. It invited me to work with my hands again, to make a mess, to celebrate process over perfection.

I chose linocut because it gave me space to slow down, to play with colour and form in a way that felt joyful and honest. There’s a kind of magic in peeling back that first print, not knowing exactly what you’ll get. It’s a little like life—messy, surprising, and full of happy accidents.

Now, each print I create tells a story—of a place, a memory, a dream. It’s a way of capturing joy in layers of ink and paper, and sharing a moment of stillness in a fast-moving world.