How Death Inspired My Art

In 2012, my world shifted in a way I could never have anticipated. My grandad passed away, and his death left an emptiness that words couldn’t express. It was a moment of profound shock given my lack of family connections or support. It was one of those life-altering events that make you see everything differently. At the time, I was deeply invested in music, composing original pieces that felt like extensions of my soul. But when he died, my passion for music died with him. The melodies that once filled my life felt meaningless, and for the first time, I found myself lost, searching for something to hold onto.

That search led me to art. Not in a traditional, structured way, but in the most raw and unfiltered form imaginable. With no formal training, no grand artistic influences, and barely any money for supplies, I turned to the simplest materials I could find—cheap charcoal sticks and house paint. There was something poetic in their simplicity. These materials, rough and unrefined, felt honest and true to whom I was. They allowed me to create without expectation, without pressure. Instead of notes on a sheet, I now found expression through deep, dark strokes of charcoal and the unpredictable texture of house paint. Art became my solace, a way to process grief and rediscover purpose.

The Connection Between Death and Creation

I was drawn to charcoal not just for its accessibility but for its symbolism. Charcoal is, at its core, the remnants of something once living. It is burnt wood (coconut nowadays), the final stage of a tree’s existence—ashes of the past turned into something new. This connection to death fascinated me. The idea that I could take something lifeless and create beauty from it resonated deeply. Every stroke on the canvas felt like a resurrection, a way to transform loss into something meaningful.

At first, my focus was on the subjects that brought me comfort—nude female forms, nature, and ballet dancers. There was something about their movement, their grace, and their vulnerability that spoke to me. The human form, with all its imperfections, felt honest and somewhat undiscovered. Birds symbolised freedom, a longing for something beyond this world. Ballerinas embodied discipline, balance, and elegance—qualities I sought in my own life. These early creations weren’t just art; they were therapy, a way to channel my emotions into something tangible.

Finding My Own Artistic Voice

When I began painting, I had no roadmap, no artistic heroes to guide me. I didn’t study the works of great painters or follow any traditional rules of art. I simply created from within. Over time, a unique style started to emerge—one rooted in emotion, movement, and a touch of surrealism. Surrealism intrigued me because it allowed me to express what words could not. Reality often felt limiting, but through art, I could build dreamlike compositions that conveyed deeper truths.

Looking back, I realise that grief didn’t just take something from me—it also gave me something invaluable. It forced me to dig deeper, to explore new forms of expression, and to find beauty in places I never would have looked otherwise. My journey as an artist began in the shadows of loss, but it has led me to a life of creation, purpose, and self-discovery. Every piece I create today carries a fragment of that beginning—a tribute to transformation, resilience, and the healing power of art.

Thank you for reading my blog post. For more about my journey as an artist, visit my bio page.
Take care,
Ashvin