Pearl de Luna’s practice unfolds like a universe in motion—woven from memory, music, and the in-between spaces of identity. Grounded in a heritage both inherited and self-assembled, her work moves fluidly between the visual and the sonic, using colour, symbol, and narrative to reflect on what it means to belong, to listen, and to remember. Each piece is a portal: shaped by jazz, shadowed by mythology, and illuminated by the desire to create space for those too often left out of the story. Whether painting gold-toned figures that emerge from raw paper or exploring the rhythm of silence between notes and brushstrokes, de Luna’s world is one of layered resonance. It is a world where ambiguity becomes agency, where the unseen is rendered visible, and where the personal becomes a pathway into the collective.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

My upbringing and cultural heritage have played a fundamental role in shaping both the themes and techniques I explore in my work. Coming from a deeply artistic family—my mum, a curator who began her career specialising in Chinese contemporary art, and my dad, a photographer with strong ties to the world of music—I was immersed in creative environments from a very early age. Despite this exposure, it wasn’t until later in life that I truly found my path in the visual arts. As a child, I often struggled to connect with the art I encountered. Much of it felt distant—its narratives and themes failed to reflect the nuances of my own experience. I gravitated instead toward music, which offered me an emotional language that felt more immediate and personal. It was through my deepening love for music—particularly jazz and the psychedelic movements of the 1960s and 70s—that I was ultimately led back to the visual arts. Jazz, in particular, captivated me. It wasn't just a genre of music; it was a philosophy, a way of life. Its improvisational nature, its fusion of complexity and freedom, felt like a visual language in itself—one that blurred the lines between sound, colour, and movement.

 

My dad always encouraged me not to confine my creativity to a single medium. In his words, the greatest artists were those who could build an entire universe—one that can be entered and experienced from multiple dimensions. That idea has stayed with me, and it’s what led me to understand that painting and music are simply two sides of the same coin. They work symbiotically in my creative process, informing and enriching one another. Painting became another vessel through which I could articulate emotion, memory, and story—sometimes where words or sound alone fell short. My background in music helped me find my visual voice more fluidly, enabling me to approach painting with rhythm, tone, and narrative in mind. More recently, my work has begun to explore my cultural heritage more directly. Growing up mixed-race, I often found myself caught in the space between identities—never feeling “enough” of either side to fully belong. This once-felt conflict has, over time, transformed into one of the most meaningful aspects of my creative vision. Rather than feeling fragmented by these dualities, I’ve come to see them as offering a rare perspective—one that allows me to understand and represent the beauty, tension, and intersection of multiple cultures. Through this lens, my work aims to create a sense of shared humanity, offering viewers of all backgrounds a point of reflection or recognition.

 

In these more recent pieces, I’ve begun using gold as the foundational colour for my figures' complexions, layering it upon it to emphasise the idea that we all share the same humanity. This choice speaks to a universal truth— Just as blood runs red in all of us, the gold in my work is a metaphor for that deeper, shared essence. Gold, in this context, represents inherent value, resilience, and spirit. I’ve also begun to leave parts of the paper intentionally exposed, allowing figures to appear as though they’re emerging from the surface itself. This technique was inspired by stories my dad told me about working in the darkroom—watching photographs gradually develop as if revealing hidden worlds. He often described that moment as magic, and I aim to echo that same sense of emergence and revelation in my work. Ultimately, my art is a reflection of my lived experience—shaped by sound, story, and heritage. It is a constantly evolving conversation between past and present, identity and expression, always reaching toward a deeper understanding of self and the world around me.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

I tend to approach the meaning behind my visual work in much the same way I approach writing lyrics in music. Each piece typically begins with an intention—a particular feeling I want to convey, an idea I want to explore, or a moment I wish to recapture. However, I rarely aim to articulate that intention too directly. Often, the work takes on a life of its own as I create, tapping into deeper layers of my subconscious and expressing thoughts or emotions I may not have been consciously aware of at the outset. Because of this, I value ambiguity in my work. I’ve never felt fully aligned with art that is overly literal or didactic. My inner world—like that of many people—is complex, often contradictory, and not easily distilled into a single, clear-cut message. I’ve always been drawn to artists like Francis Bacon, whose work embodies a striking duality: bold, vivid compositions that still carry a haunting weight beneath the surface. That layered complexity resonates with me, as I believe human beings are similarly layered—constantly evolving, navigating conflicting emotions and identities. Clarity can be powerful, but I think too much specificity can risk alienating viewers who don’t see the world through the same lens. Ambiguity, on the other hand, creates space—for multiple interpretations, personal connections, and unexpected emotional responses. This approach particularly resonated with me while exploring tarot as a symbolic framework in my work. I was fascinated by the idea that tarot doesn’t offer rigid predictions but rather serves as a guide— something open-ended that nudges you toward insight or self-reflection. That’s what I strive for in my paintings: to create pieces that function like visual tapestries or maps, where the characters act as storytellers and symbols serve as signposts, allowing each viewer to uncover their own meaning and narrative within the work. Ultimately, I believe the ambiguity invites deeper engagement. If someone can look at one of my pieces and find something of their own reflected back—something I may never have intended— that, to me, is a sign the work is alive.

How do you respond to debates about the accessibility of art—should it be exclusive, or is it for everyone?

I believe that accessibility remains one of the most pressing challenges within the art world today. For far too long, art institutions have been spaces that exclude rather than embrace, often alienating individuals from diverse socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds. This exclusivity has created a landscape where many feel unwelcome or unseen—particularly people of colour, whose histories, narratives, and creative contributions have been consistently overlooked or underrepresented in major artistic spaces. One of my core intentions as an artist is to help shift this dynamic by fostering greater inclusivity and representation—especially for communities historically excluded from the art world. Although I was fortunate to grow up in an artistic household that valued creativity and had the means to expose me to museums and galleries, I often found the art on display distant and emotionally disconnected from my own lived experiences. It wasn’t until I encountered the work of artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jacob Lawrence, and Carrie Mae Weems that I felt a sense of resonance and belonging. Their work gave me permission to imagine a place for myself within the artistic canon, and it deeply shaped my understanding of what art could be—raw, personal, political, and powerfully human. 

 

That said, I recognise that many are not afforded the same opportunities. Art is too often viewed as a luxury—elitist, intimidating, or inaccessible. This perception is reinforced by institutions that, paradoxically, house vast collections of cultural artefacts and works taken from the very communities they continue to exclude. For example, institutions like the British Museum are filled with objects from colonised nations, yet people from those diasporas often feel disconnected or even unwelcome in those very spaces. This dissonance is emblematic of a larger issue: by withholding access to these histories, we diminish the potential for connection, healing, and inspiration. Through my work, I aim to challenge this exclusivity by creating spaces—both physical and conceptual—where people of colour feel seen, respected, and represented. I want to contribute to a more inclusive dialogue within the arts, one that celebrates a broader spectrum of voices and experiences. By sharing stories that are often overlooked, I hope to encourage others to see value in their own perspectives and feel empowered to engage with art in a way that feels authentic to them. Ultimately, I believe that art should be for everyone. It should be a tool for empathy, education, and transformation—not a gate-kept privilege. My hope is that through continued effort and intention, we can move toward an art world that is truly reflective of the richness and diversity of the world we live in.

If you could step back into any artistic era, which would it be and why?

If I could step back into any artistic era, it would undoubtedly be either the Harlem Renaissance or the Négritude movement in France—two periods that have deeply influenced not only the subjects I paint but also the themes and titles that shape my practice. As an artist of colour, the significance of these movements resonates profoundly. Both were born out of resistance, resilience, and the urgent need for self-definition. They represented a powerful reclaiming of identity through art, music, literature, and thought—where creative expression became an act of political and cultural liberation. To witness that energy first-hand, to be surrounded by a community of artists who were not only exceptionally talented but also bound together by a shared sense of purpose and urgency, would be nothing short of extraordinary. It was a time when every piece of work carried weight—a message, a challenge, a call to redefine narratives that had long been imposed on us. The Négritude movement in particular, holds a special place in my heart, partly due to my own French heritage. I was born in Paris and spent much of my childhood in the south of France, where my mum’s side of the family is from. Despite that connection, I often struggled to feel a sense of belonging there—especially as a young person of mixed heritage navigating environments that didn’t always feel welcoming. Learning about the Négritude movement was transformative. It revealed a side of French history where Black creatives were not only visible but also celebrated. Writers and thinkers like Aimé Césaire, Léopold Sédar Senghor, and Léon Damas helped to create a space where Black identity and intellectual thought were not only validated but also revered. Discovering that era allowed me to see Paris in a different light—a city once brimming with artistic freedom and solidarity, rather than the alienation I experienced growing up.

 

The Harlem Renaissance, too, is a moment I often return to in my mind. While I’m aware that, historically, it would have been an incredibly difficult time to exist in as a person of colour, there’s no denying the cultural renaissance that flourished against the odds. The explosion of Black excellence across jazz, poetry, literature, and the visual arts was revolutionary. There’s something incredibly powerful about the beauty that emerges in spite of—or perhaps because of— oppression. It laid the groundwork for so many of the freedoms and expressions we’re able to explore today, and as an artist, I feel a deep sense of gratitude and admiration for that legacy. To step into either of those eras would be to witness the birth of movements that redefined culture, reshaped history, and allowed marginalised voices to rise with force and brilliance. It would be an honour to be even a small part of that.

What would the theme song of your artistic journey be, and how does it reflect your story?

If I had to choose a theme song for my artistic journey, it would be Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts by Parliament-Funkadelic. It’s a track that has remained a constant in my life since childhood, but its meaning has evolved with me—deepening as I’ve grown, experienced more of life, and developed my voice as an artist. Musically, it’s an immersive, dreamlike soundscape—twelve minutes of Eddie Hazel’s hypnotic guitar riffs, soaked in reverb and delay, creating the feeling of drifting through an abstract, psychedelic cosmos. There’s something beautifully meditative about it—like being suspended in time—until about halfway through, when George Clinton enters with his signature cosmic wisdom: “Free your mind and your ass will follow.” It's surreal, profound, and oddly grounding all at once. This song mirrors the essence of my creative process and the emotional landscape of my work. There's a duality in the music—the lullaby-like softness of the guitar against an eerie, expansive backdrop—that speaks to how I often approach themes in my art: exploring both vulnerability and strength, chaos and calm, clarity and confusion. Clinton’s spoken-word reflections are almost like mantras—offering guidance through layers of introspection, which is very much how I experience the act of painting. I enter into a realm that feels parallel to reality, yet far removed—a liminal space where I can release control and allow intuition and emotion to take the lead. That realm is where my work is born, and it's the space I hope to invite viewers into. Just like the song, I want my paintings to act as portals—offering a brief escape from the rigidity of reality while also planting seeds for deeper thought and reflection. If I could encapsulate what I aim to offer through my art—emotionally, spiritually, and visually—it would be very similar to the feeling I get every time I hear this track: a momentary pause from the world, filled with colour, possibility, and unspoken mysticism.

Do you believe the ‘mad artist’ stereotype still holds weight, or is creativity more grounded than we think?

I think the ‘mad artist’ stereotype still holds some weight, but it’s a more nuanced concept than it's often given credit for. Many of the artists I’m most drawn to—across both music and visual art —have been labelled as eccentric or unconventional. What they seem to share is a refusal to be confined by a single medium or form. Instead, they’ve created fully immersive worlds—alternate realities that exist through their work. These worlds act as portals, drawing the viewer or listener into a perspective that may feel unfamiliar or abstract but is deeply personal and vividly realised. When an artist builds such a distinct and expansive universe, it can feel alien to those observing from the outside—especially if the visual or emotional language doesn’t immediately translate. I think that’s often where the stereotype of "madness" comes in: when society struggles to understand or categorise what it can’t easily relate to. But there’s a certain brilliance and beauty in that kind of creative vision—artists like Yayoi Kusama or Salvador Dalí come to mind, whose work blurs the line between reality and imagination in a way that is undeniably powerful. That said, I believe the perception of madness often stems from a deeper truth: that some of the most compelling, thought-provoking work comes from a place of pain, struggle, or emotional complexity. For many artists, creativity becomes a form of escapism—a way to process or transcend the difficulties of lived experience. And in some cases, the world they create becomes more bearable than the one they inhabit. When that line blurs too much and the artist loses touch with our shared reality, society tends to interpret that as madness—when in fact, it might just be a form of deep sensitivity or self-preservation. So, while creativity is certainly grounded—it takes discipline, structure, and vision—I also think there’s room for the mysterious, the eccentric, and the undefinable. And perhaps, rather than dismissing those qualities as madness, we might start to see them as evidence of just how expansive and transformative the creative mind can be.

How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?

In the coming years, I envision my work evolving in ways that further blur the boundaries between visual art, music, and narrative. A major goal of mine is to begin incorporating my music more directly into my visual practice—experimenting with soundscapes, compositions, and moving images to create multi-sensory experiences. I’m particularly inspired by artists like William Kentridge and Kara Walker, whose animation-style works not only possess strong aesthetic identities but also powerfully engage with historical and political realities. Kentridge’s approach, in particular—offering an empathetic outsider’s perspective on the complexities of apartheid—demonstrates how animation and movement can be used to convey profound emotional and social weight. Similarly, I’m interested in developing installation-based pieces that invite audiences into the surrealistic realms I explore in my paintings. I want to build immersive environments that extend beyond the canvas—encompassing sound, light, narrative, and movement to fully animate the alternate realities I depict. These ideas feel like natural extensions of the world I’ve already begun to create and offer exciting opportunities for deeper storytelling and connection. So far, my practice has been defined by organic experimentation and continual growth, starting with acrylics and a bold, graphic style rooted in strong colour blocks, detailed facial expressions, and elements inspired by African masks and woodblock printing. Over time, my technique has become more refined and intricate, but I’ve remained grounded in the foundational energy and symbolism of my early work. I think this evolution is in part due to being self-taught—I’ve never felt confined by traditional rules or expectations, which has given me the freedom to follow my instincts and explore ideas in unconventional ways. Interestingly, my background in music— having been formally trained — while invaluable in terms of discipline and technical understanding—often made it more difficult to find my individual voice. Formal training can sometimes impose structure at the expense of experimentation, and I’ve come to believe that it's often the so-called 'imperfections' that give an artist’s work its most authentic and unique qualities. As I continue to grow, I hope to remain open to surprise—to new mediums, processes, and ideas that challenge me and open up new dimensions of expression. Whether it’s through sound, film, immersive installation, or the continual refinement of my painting practice, I’m committed to deepening the worlds I build and inviting others into them in increasingly meaningful ways.

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Through a practice that resists categorisation, Pearl de Luna offers a body of work that feels both grounded and cosmic—rooted in ancestry yet unbound by expectation. Her vision is one of expansion: where visual art speaks in tandem with sound and where heritage becomes both archive and instrument. Looking ahead, her commitment to building immersive, interdisciplinary spaces speaks to an artist for whom creation is not just about making but about remembering, reclaiming, and reaching. As her universe continues to evolve, so too does its capacity to hold complexity, contradiction, and connection.