Oyrania Vakoulis-Morris’s practice explores the space between memory and myth, belonging and difference. Raised in rural Mid-Wales and shaped by her Greek heritage, her work traces quiet moments of transition—where emotion, symbolism, and natural elements intertwine. Drawing from family histories, literature, and personal memory, Oyrania builds layered scenes that centre stillness, reflection, and the strength in sensitivity. Working primarily in oil, she blends mythic motifs with personal landscapes, inviting viewers into intimate, introspective worlds.

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

Growing up in rural Mid‑Wales with dark hair and Greek features, I often felt like the outsider. Even at school I was known as “the Greek girl”, a label that lingered as a quiet  tension between wanting to belong and embracing difference. 

A defining moment came when I was cast as Pocahontas in a school play because of my appearance, while friends became mermaids. I cried until I was moved, not because I disliked Pocahontas, but because I’d craved the magic of fitting in. That contrast between blending in and standing out is at the heart of my work. I was named after my Greek grandmother, whom I met a few times. She was a guiding  presence, and I still feel her strength as I paint. Reading Circe by Madeline Miller  sparked my reconnection with that part of my identity, teaching me that myth, solitude,  and difference can be powerful. 

Now, my paintings bring together Greek mythic imagery and Welsh landscapes: horned  figures, shells, forest paths, sea horizons. I sketch with charcoal, paint in layered oils,  and start from travel photos that hold personal memory. I weave together mythology,  memory, and everyday wonder, honouring both sides of my heritage, and inviting  viewers to find belonging in the feeling of difference.

Have you ever felt drawn toward a conventional career path? What made you take the "creative leap" despite the risks? 

I’ve always known I was creative, but I didn’t always believe it could be a career. I  started out aiming for something more conventional, maybe history, academia - but I  couldn’t shake the pull toward art. Even as a teenager, I felt torn between ambition and self-expression. Much to my mum’s concern, I left traditional studies behind to pursue art full-time. I studied textile design at university, which taught me structure, layering, and deep  respect for colour. But over time, I began to feel boxed in, too repetitive, too polished. I  switched courses, changed cities, and eventually moved into set design for TV and film.  That felt closer, more hands-on, but the long hours and lack of creative freedom left me burned out. After one intense production, I found myself unemployed in London with time to paint, and something clicked. It wasn’t easy, but it felt real. Slowly, I realised I had to stop chasing creative roles that were still built around someone else’s vision. I wanted to make my own work, on my own terms. Recently, I made the decision to step back from salaried work and give more space to my painting. It’s a risk, and one I don’t take lightly. I come from a working-class background, and I understand financial pressure deeply. But nothing else has made me feel this grounded, this alive. Art is where I feel most myself, and I finally trust that’s worth choosing. 

If you could communicate just one core message through your entire body of work, what would it be? 

At the heart of my work is a quiet invitation: to slow down, to reconnect, and to feel. I’m interested in how memory, place, and emotion intersect - those soft, in-between moments that often go unnoticed but carry deep meaning. I return again and again to themes of nature, mythology, and human connection. I want my paintings to evoke a sense of exploration, of wandering through a place or a feeling,  often shaped by the Greek landscapes and travel photographs that inspire me. Water shows up often - seas, rivers, waves - as a symbol of emotion and transition. There’s something about the stillness of nature that feels spiritually grounding to me, and I  hope it offers that to others, too. 

Symbolism is central. I use motifs like horns, shells, and animals to tell stories that feel half-remembered, part real and part dream. My figures are often solitary or still, caught in a moment of reflection. These are the moments I personally find healing: sitting by the sea, walking through a forest, watching the light change on a friend’s face. I hope people looking at my work feel a sense of connection, not just to the earth, but to  themselves and each other. Life can feel rushed and overwhelming; I want to create a  space for quiet imagination, for memory, and for returning to the simple, human magic  of feeling deeply.

Do you believe an artist's passion is something destined or a conscious choice?

I think it’s a bit of both. As children, most of us are innately creative - we tell stories,  draw, play. But somewhere along the way, many of us stop. For me, the urge never left.  Drawing felt like a safe space, especially when I was young and unsure of where I fit in.  It gave me a way to process things I couldn’t say out loud. I’ve often questioned whether I chose this path or whether it chose me. I don’t always feel in control of the need to create; it’s more like something I carry, something I must respond to. When I’m painting, I feel aligned, like I’m doing the thing I’m meant to do.  When I’m not, life feels a little greyer, like something’s missing. That said, I do think becoming an artist takes a conscious choice. You must keep showing up, even when it’s hard or when self-doubt creeps in. There’s no clear roadmap, and it’s not always easy to explain to others why you’re choosing this over something more stable. But I know that I feel most alive when I’m making things. It helps me make sense of the world. 

So, while I like to believe being an artist is part of my destiny, I also know I’ve chosen it,  again and again, because it’s the one thing that continues to light me up from the inside.

How has your artistic style transformed over the years? Are there specific influences, experiments, or moments that marked a turning point? 

My work has changed a lot in terms of medium and process, but at its core, I’ve always been drawn to the same things -figures in nature, moments of stillness, and quiet narratives. Even as a child, I loved drawing people and animals in imagined landscapes.  That thread has stayed with me. 

One of the biggest shifts came during my textile design degree. We spent weeks learning colour theory through gouache painting - mixing gradients, creating tints,  understanding how colour behaves. It was technical and intense, but it completely changed the way I see and use colour. That knowledge now forms the backbone of my  painting style. 

Over time, I realised I needed more creative freedom. I moved from textile design to set design, then eventually into painting full-time. Each shift was about getting closer to what felt honest. Painting gave me space to experiment without limits, to mix colours wildly, layer textures, and create symbolic, emotional worlds. Recently, reconnecting with my Greek heritage has been a major turning point. Reading mythology, exploring old family photos, and reflecting on my identity have made my work feel more rooted. I paint horned creatures, seaside paths, mythic symbols -things that feel personal but also universal. One early oil painting featured a shy, blue creature with horns. I think it was me, trying to navigate the world. That’s still what I’m doing, just with a bit more clarity now. My style continues to evolve, but I finally feel like I’m painting from a place that’s fully mine. 

Has there ever been a time when the creative process felt more like a burden than a joy? How did you navigate that? 

Absolutely. There have been times when being creative felt more like a weight than a gift, especially when I’ve doubted myself or struggled to find stability. I’ve often felt frustrated by how sensitive I am, or how intensely I feel things. Painting can bring peace,  but it can also bring up everything I’ve been avoiding. I used to wonder if I was wasting time, painting instead of learning something more  “useful” or building a “real” career. I’ve worked jobs that drained me, trying to fit into more conventional roles, but they always left me feeling hollow. I’d paint late at night or on weekends and feel resentful that it couldn’t be my focus. There have also been moments when I’ve felt like a failure for not fitting into what society expects, for not being able to keep up with the hustle or choose a more predictable path. But I’ve learned to see those feelings not as signs I should stop, but as reminders of what matters to me most. Even when painting feels heavy, I always come back to it. It brings me hope, clarity, and meaning — even in small moments. I’ve realised I don’t need to wait until everything is perfect to live as an artist. The joy comes in the doing, in the risk, in choosing to keep going. Even when it’s hard, it’s worth it. 

If you could live anywhere in the world to further inspire your creativity, where would it be? 

Greece holds my heart. I’ve always dreamed of spending a few months there — drawing, painting, walking through mountain villages, collecting stories and colours along the way. I want to reconnect with my heritage more deeply, not just through holiday photos, but through the quiet, everyday beauty of local life.  Some of my most treasured memories are from trips there with my mum — swimming in the sea, watching older women chat in courtyards, and stray cats wandering sunlit alleyways. Those images stay with me and often make their way into my paintings.  Greece feels both maternal and magical to me — full of strength, softness, and deep cultural roots. 

That said, I’m also deeply fascinated by South America. The biodiversity of the Amazon,  the butterflies of Mexico, the vivid colour and mystery of the land — it’s a place I dream of visiting. I’ve always felt that butterflies represent those who’ve passed away, so watching their migration would be something very spiritual and meaningful for me. Ideally, I’d love to live between places — spending part of the year in Greece, close to my roots, and part in London, where my life and relationships are growing. I hope to one day have a small studio near the sea, where I can paint slowly and share stories through colour. Somewhere quiet, somewhere wild — a place that brings me back to myself.

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Through each canvas, Oyrania Vakoulis-Morris invites a return to feeling slowness, depth, and the quiet magic of connection. Her practice does not rush to explain but gently opens space for contemplation: a shell washed ashore, a horned figure caught mid-thought, a forest holding memory. Rooted in dual heritage and shaped by lived vulnerability, her work honours softness as a site of strength and difference as a place of possibility.