Shells

In this ink drawing, I was drawn to the tension within the form itself. These shells are made for protection — spiked, ridged, enclosed — built by the organism to keep the outside world at a distance. And yet, as I worked with ink, slowly building the lines and textures, what emerged wasn’t just a barrier, but something strangely elegant.

That’s the paradox that fascinates me: the idea that protection, when it becomes form, also becomes expression. These shells weren’t made to be seen, they were made to hide — yet they invite the gaze. Their complexity, which came from necessity, becomes a source of beauty.

When I draw them, I’m not just observing the surface — I’m also tracing the instinct to shield, to withdraw, to survive. And I realize that this gesture of protection isn’t only defensive. It creates structure. It creates shape. It creates meaning.

There’s something deeply human in that. We build our own kinds of shells — habits, emotional distance, defenses — and over time, those too take on form. Sometimes rigid, sometimes delicate, but always shaped by the experiences that made them necessary. Drawing these shells helps me see that even our guarded parts can hold beauty. Not because they were meant to, but because they endured.