Seeing Differently: How Neurodivergence Shapes Art

For as long as I can remember, I’ve experienced the world under a constant barrage of details, patterns, textures, and connections that others might not immediately notice. Being ADHD neurodivergent means my mind thrives on this constant overwhelming saturation of detail, on finding relationships between seemingly unrelated things, on feeling deeply immersed in the sensory experience of a place. This has profoundly shaped my approach to art—not just in how I create, but in how I see and interpret the world around me.

The Language of Ink and Imperfection:

Much of my practice revolves around traditional Japanese ink painting techniques and the philosophy of **wabi-sabi**, which embraces imperfection, impermanence, and the beauty found in the natural cycle of growth and deterioration. As someone whose brain often fixates on detail while also seeking broader patterns, this philosophy resonates deeply. There is something grounding about the fluid unpredictability of ink on paper—how it seeps, spreads, and sometimes defies control. Rather than fight against it, I’ve learned to embrace it, much like I’ve learned to embrace the way my mind works.

I love to make my own inks, sourcing materials directly from my environment—charcoal from burned wood, incense soot, water from a nearby river or coastline, or even leftover sake and chicken broth! This act of creation isn’t just about making paint; it’s about forming a direct, tangible connection to place. Neurodivergence means I don’t just observe a landscape—I “feel” it, analyse it, breaking it down into textures and movement. My environmentally alchemical ink-making process allows me to translate that deep sensory engagement into my work.

Reframing Focus and Perception:

One of the unique aspects of neurodivergence is the ability to hyperfocus—to become completely absorbed in a subject, losing hours to a single brushstroke, a single idea, or a single moment of artistic flow. This intense focus allows me to experiment with techniques in ways that might seem unconventional. I explore layering instead of erasing, reworking—building up an image much like how my mind builds narratives from fragments of memory, emotion, and historical context.

It’s also why I’m drawn to Ukiyo-e, the traditional Japanese woodblock print style. Ukiyo-e artists captured fleeting moments—the movement of waves, the rustling of trees, the life of the city—in a way that was both structured and fluid. Their process was meticulous, requiring patience and repetition, yet their subject matter was transient and dreamlike. In many ways, this mirrors my own experience: a mind that oscillates between structured obsession and free-flowing thought.

The Art of Repair and Reimagining :

Another philosophy that resonates with me is kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. Instead of hiding flaws, it highlights them—transforming the cracks into something even more beautiful. This idea of embracing imperfections is not just part of my artistic practice but also a reflection of how I navigate the world as a neurodivergent artist. Instead of seeing differences as something to be “fixed,” I see them as a source of strength, of unique perspective.

Art, for me, is not just about creating—it’s about connecting. Connecting to place, to culture, to history, and to the people who experience my work. My neurodivergence allows me to perceive and interpret the world differently, and through my art, I invite others to step into that perspective, even just for a moment.

In a world that often values conformity, embracing difference—whether in art or in life—is an act of quiet rebellion. And in that rebellion, there is beauty.