Escaping to Create, Creating to Escape

I consider myself a fantasist and it annoys me.

Since I was young, I’ve always found deep comfort in dreaming of other places—of being someone else, somewhere else. I didn’t just enjoy books and musicals; I wanted to live inside them. As a child, video games became another world I could step into. I remember playing Spyro the Dragon and Crash Bandicoot and feeling like I was on holiday in a tropical paradise, with no responsibilities or pain. More than escapism, these games gave me a sense of control, wonder, and peace.

Later, games like Viva Piñata and The Sims took that even further. I spent hours building virtual spaces—meticulously curating gardens, designing homes, creating entire lives. I remember hitting a certain level in Viva Piñata, when everything in the game was flourishing… and suddenly I felt a wave of dissatisfaction. I had nothing tangible to show for all that time. The experience had been immersive, yes—but oddly hollow. That feeling has never fully left me. It’s part of why I turned to art.

Escapism, I believe, is an emotional survival mechanism. In my case, the pain of endometriosis has played a huge role in this. Living with an invisible illness, especially one that can be so debilitating, means there are days I physically can’t engage with the world in the way I want to. In those moments, fantasy becomes a necessity—a balm, a distraction, a safe place. I know many people with chronic pain or mental health challenges find themselves doing the same thing: stepping sideways into imagined worlds when reality feels too much.

This theme of escapism plays out again and again in my artwork, even when it appears light, cheerful, or colourful on the surface. My current works may seem dreamy and whimsical, but they often carry a deeper emotional truth underneath. One of my long-term goals is to explore that more honestly—to let the work get heavier, more vulnerable, more grounded in the realities that make escapism so necessary.

A turning point for me came after visiting the Kimono: Kyoto to Catwalk exhibition at the V&A Dundee. I was captivated by the concept of ukiyo—“the floating world.” It referred historically to a cultural movement in Japan centred around fleeting pleasures: kabuki theatre, geishas, woodblock prints, fashion. But it was also an acknowledgment that life itself is ephemeral and uncertain. The idea of floating, of building temporary beauty in a turbulent world, struck me deeply. It put language to what I had already been feeling and making.

We’re living in a time when escapism is easier than ever to access—games, VR, social media, and streaming platforms let us disappear into curated or imagined spaces within seconds. But at the same time, we’re surrounded by unignorable realities: the climate crisis, social injustice, war, and political unease. There are some things we cannot, and should not, escape from. That tension—between the need for release and the call to stay present—is one I try to hold in my work.

In the coming months, I plan to explore this even more: what does it mean to escape beautifully, and to return honestly? What do we carry back with us from those dream worlds? And how can we make meaning out of that return?

For me, the act of making art is both a form of escape and a way back to myself.