For a long time, my creative identity lived almost entirely in the visual world. Music felt adjacent — something I admired, collaborated with, or responded to — but not something I claimed as my own medium. Less visibly, I’ve always been writing since my teenage years, filling sketchbooks, pads, and folders with verse, fragments, lyrics, and poems, without ever being certain where they belonged. Recently, that boundary has softened.

 

What’s opened up isn’t the pursuit of technical musicianship, but a different kind of authorship: directing, shaping, editing, and releasing sound through intuition, structure, and taste. Working with AI has removed traditional bottlenecks and allowed me to operate more like a conductor or editor than a performer. I assemble ideas, refine arrangements, guide tone, and shape lyrics, focusing on coherence and emotional movement rather than perfection.

 

This shift has been surprisingly calm. I’m less concerned with approval or categorisation and more focused on continuity: making work, letting it exist, and trusting that it will find its own trajectory. Music now sits alongside my visual practice not as a departure, but as an expansion — another space where intuition, composition, and restraint can do their work