Drawing What Words Can’t Say
Vasundhara’s art lingers and her illustrations give form to emotions we often struggle to name. Whether it’s grief, self-reflection, or the quiet chaos of transition, her work invites viewers to pause, feel, and find their own meanings in the visual metaphors she gently weaves. In this conversation, we delve into her creative process, the tricky business of illustrating emotions, and why “not having it all figured out” is sometimes the best place to be.
What does your art revolve around?
Art is where I make sense of emotions, where complexity, struggle, and growth find a visual language. Through illustration, words, and experimental formats, I aim to evoke introspection and spark dialogue around often-overlooked subjects. I draw inspiration from my inner state and personal experiences. Much of my work holds space for emotional undercurrents, not to solve or explain them, but simply to acknowledge their presence.
You describe your work as giving "visual forms to emotions". What's the trickiest form you have tried to illustrate ?
What’s something you would like to unlearn?
I think the trickiest emotion I’ve tried to illustrate is grief. There’s no single definition for it. It’s not linear, and it rarely looks the same for two people. It can feel heavy and hollow at the same time, loud one day and quiet the next. What makes it especially hard to visualise is that you don’t always know when, where, or how it will hit you. It is difficult to catch in a work, but definitely unique every time.
One thing I’ve been actively trying to unlearn is the idea of perfection. During my MA, one of my professors said, “Drawing is not to mirror what already exists, but to realise it.” That line stayed with me and helped me through my days of imposter syndrome. It reminds me that every artist sees and expresses differently and that there’s space for all of us in the art world, regardless of how polished or ‘perfect’ our work looks. I’m also unlearning the belief that you have to create every single day to be a “real” artist.Rest is just as important, especially when art isn’t the only thing sustaining you financially. Sometimes, stepping back is exactly what helps you return with more clarity and intention.
Tell us about your work 'Things That Take a While to Sink In'
Things That Take a While to Sink In is a picture book I created during my MA in Illustration.
It’s intended for adults and young adults, and it explores the nonlinear nature of emotions, grief, transition, reconnection with the inner child, all the quiet, complex experiences we’re often encouraged to move past quickly. The book unfolds slowly, almost meditatively, using minimal text and visual metaphor. Each spread holds space for reflection rather than resolution. I wanted to explore how silence, stillness, and pacing could function as narrative tools in themselves. Visually, I blended contemporary digital illustration with subtle influences from Indian folk art traditions. This helped ground the work in something culturally familiar while still allowing space for abstraction and interpretation. The textures, colours, and detailing were all chosen carefully to evoke emotion without overwhelming. The project also formed the basis of my thesis, Visual Empathy: The Role of Illustration in Mental Health and Well-being. In both the research and the book, I was exploring how illustration can act as a form of visual empathy, offering quiet comfort, connection, and a space for emotional recognition. My hope was that readers could see a part of themselves in the work, or at least feel less alone in what they’re carrying.
Each piece seems like a portal into a feeling -mirrors, houses, roots. What draws you to objects as metaphors for emotional states?
I’m drawn to everyday objects, mirrors, houses, roots, because they hold a quiet familiarity. A mirror, for example, isn’t just glass. It’s reflection, distortion, self-awareness, sometimes even shame or longing. A house can be comfort or confinement. I like that these objects can hold multiple emotional possibilities at once. Using objects as metaphors helps me translate internal states into something visual; something the viewer can engage with intuitively. The metaphor exists to open a door, not to define the room. In one of my recent pieces, I illustrated a woman lying on a patch of ground, and below her are tangled roots intertwined with ghost-like silhouettes. These silhouettes represent past selves, versions we’ve outgrown or quietly discarded. They’re not actively present anymore, but they shaped who we are. The roots suggest that even what we leave behind continues to ground us in ways we might not fully see. It was paired with a short poem, “Maybe this version, too, is just an echo - an echo of who we’re still becoming.” That’s the kind of emotional ambiguity I’m drawn to, where the metaphors invite reflection,
not resolution.
How do you deal with creative blocks?
It used to really stress me out in the beginning. I’d panic and feel like I was somehow “less” of an artist during those phases. But over time, I’ve become more comfortable with creative blocks. I’ve realised they’re just a natural part of the process, every creative person goes through them. Now, I try not to force my way out of it. Instead, I take it as a signal to slow down. Scrolling through Pinterest, revisiting artists I admire, or Yoga often helps. Even when I’m not actively drawing, I stay curious. Observing things around me, collecting visual references, or learning new techniques, it keeps the creative energy flowing quietly in the background until I’m ready to return to work.
When not making art, what do you do?
When I’m not making art, I work as a multidisciplinary designer. I’ve spent over six years in graphic design, illustration, and art direction building brand identities and visual campaigns across both print and digital platforms. Outside of work, I find joy in exploring animated films, music, and cinema. It all weaves back into my creative practice in unexpected ways, whether it’s a colour palette, a mood, or a story that stays with me.
How important is change for an artist?
Change has played a quiet but important role in my journey as an artist. Moving countries,
shifting cities, and stepping away from the familiar, each transition pushed me out of my
comfort zone and into deeper self-reflection. Change helps me understand myself better and deepens how I connect with the emotions I try to translate into my work.
There’s a quote I come back to often: “Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror. No feeling is final.” It reminds me to stay open, to let life in even the hard parts because that’s where so much of the emotional depth comes from. Nothing is permanent, and
somehow, that’s reassuring.
What do you wish to convey to your younger self?
What does the future look like?
Just breathe. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Trust your gut more, it’s wiser than you think. Believe in that weird, dreamy brain of yours. And seriously, chill a little. Not everything is a crisis. You’re doing better than you know.
Hopefully softer, slower, and more honest. I don’t have a fixed idea of what the future should look like, but I know I want to keep making work that feels true to where I am. I want to explore new formats maybe zines, installations, or collaborations and continue telling stories that hold space for emotional ambiguity. And more than anything, I hope the future brings me closer to people and practices that feel nourishing creatively and personally.