Lucy Pass creates from a place of raw honesty, translating emotion, memory, and self-exploration into fragmented portraits that speak both of connection and solitude. Each painting becomes a quiet conversation between chaos and clarity — an attempt to understand the world through the human face, and in doing so, to find belonging within it. Through abstraction, ambiguity, and expressive mark making, the work traces the shifting boundary between order and feeling, inviting viewers to encounter both beauty and unease. Rooted in intuition yet refined through discipline, the practice embodies art as therapy, dialogue, and discovery — a lifelong process of piecing together what it means to be human. 

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Can you pinpoint a single moment in your life when you realized art was not just a passion but your purpose?

Art has always been my passion since I was a small child. Everyone around me said I would grow up to be an artist because I was very rarely without a pencil or a paintbrush in my hand! For as long as I can remember, I was only really interested in portraiture, almost to the point of obsession, and I’ve never wavered from painting the human form. It’s only in very recent years I started to understand why. It’s hard to put into words, but I’ve spent most of my life feeling like an alien; like I’m in the wrong place; a square peg in a round hole. I’ve always studied people intently, searching for understanding and feeling everything far too deeply as a result. Human emotion is an endless, complex, bubbling soup that I can easily find myself drowning in. I think as you get older, you become more accepting of the parts of yourself you can’t change and I started to see this confused part of me less as a fault and merely as part of my design, and art is the vehicle I had unknowingly been using to navigate it. The puzzle pieces clicked into place and I finally understood that portraiture had been more than just creating a pleasing image to look at, but I was actually using it as a way to make sense of the world and my place in it. The more I understood myself, the more I understood why I’d been painting these fragmented faces, half formed, falling apart or piecing themselves together. It's probably also why I've always found them hard to explain. I've never been particularly comfortable putting my art into words, because for me it's an escape from that; a different form of expression, completely removed from words and exhausting forensic explanation. It’s a different, quieter way to process my experiences. Art for me is a form of therapy that is essential for my existence. 

Just as essential now though, is the act of sharing it with others. I've always found it fascinating to see how people reacted to my art but I see now that this is an extension of that lifelong alien feeling; always searching for explanation and feedback. I never wanted to give too much away and tell anyone exactly what they should take from my work, instead leaving room for the viewer to fill in the gaps; I think this is both a search to find other similar life-forms to me but it’s also an attempt to find connection through differences. When I find those connections—through people expressing the different ways my art has affected them—I feel a little less lost and my hope is that they do too! Even though my art is highly introspective, its purpose is to offer an outstretched hand, to understand and to be understood and to find connection in an endlessly confusing world.

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?

Ambiguity is definitely key for me. I’m fascinated by double meaning and what makes two people read the same image differently. Years ago I was exhibiting at an art fair and a couple approached one of my paintings, clearly locked into some kind of debate about it. It was clear from their body language that the man loved the painting and the woman really did not! But it turns out that it wasn’t simply a question of like or dislike (or whether it would clash with the sofa or not!), but the fact that they each had intensely opposing readings of the piece. He felt serenity and calm when he looked at it, leaning in for a closer look and smiling, while it made her feel so uneasy that she wouldn’t even come close to it. Neither could really explain their reactions or why they were so polarised and we laughed at the idea of sitting down and taking Rorschach style tests with each piece of my work like some kind of psychological experiment! It was a bit of a eureka moment for me and it pushed me further into abstraction and ambiguity, keen to hold on to my own personal meaning and leave space for others to find theirs and to take what they want or need from it. 

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

My style was born out of a rejection of traditional portraiture. Commissioned portraits made me feel bound, constricted and completely detached from my own voice. Even just using references where I knew the subject clouded the process for me. I couldn’t move my thoughts away from the expectation of that person, which in turn made me unable to fully express myself. Any knowledge of the subject at all dampened my creativity and dialled up my self-criticism and I was never happy with the results. I found that when I used a reference photo where I didn’t know the subject, I could paint freely because likeness no longer mattered – In fact I could actively change their appearance, features and expression and create a completely new narrative without worrying about a true representation. I realised that this was fundamental for my artistic process and that essentially what I was trying to achieve was self exploration; the faces vary each time, but you could almost view each painting as a self portrait hidden behind a mask. I started to discard the elements and processes that either I didn’t enjoy or didn’t feel relevant to me, and focused in on what was left. Backgrounds were the first thing to go; for me, the colour of the curtains or the pattern in the wallpaper were irrelevant pieces of information, so these things were abandoned. Clothing and eventually hair followed, until anything that could place a subject in time and space was swallowed up by a neutral void. Faces quickly broke down into fragments and a suggestion of form until what was left wasn’t a portrait any more, just a fragmented feeling of humanness. From this point I began to experiment with with expressive mark making. During the Covid lockdown in 2020, I painted 100 heads as a daily challenge, not just to stay sane, but to intensively develop my practice. There were lots tangents and one off experiments, but a recurring language of marks and abstract elements began to emerge which is now integral to my work and is still constantly shifting and evolving today.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

Each piece starts with a digital photo reference, or several; something that grabs my interest in some way. I cut up, splice, repeat and overlay images, sometimes with sections of my previous paintings, playing with compositions until a spark ignites. I work on lots of these digital collages at a time and have hundreds filed away. Some demand to be painted immediately, some are discarded and picked up later and some will never see the light of day again! Even though this process can take a long time, when it comes to actually creating a piece I am very impatient. I have to work fast while the inspiration is fresh and before my brain moves on to something else! I work on one piece at a time and stay away from overly complex processes, preferring to use as few tools, materials and steps as possible to work through from an idea to a finished piece efficiently. I even have my panels prepped ahead of time so that this step doesn’t interrupt my flow. The thought of waiting for layers of paint to dry in between sessions of work is my personal hell! There’s nothing more frustrating to me than wanting to make a start on a painting and realising that I first need to spend half a day preparing the ground! I create these in acrylic paint, using large, chaotic strokes to create energy and texture, trying not to think about composition because later on the random shapes will naturally influence and create contrast with the more precise figurative fragments. For these, I switch to oil paint and my palette is limited to only four colours; cadmium red, cobalt blue, lemon yellow and titanium white. I create these elements in one single layer, completing one section at a time whilst the oil paint is still wet, using only a little solvent to thin. I work with one small brush, laying down one small block of colour at a time. My process is minimal and considered and I feel a great sense of calm when I paint. I feel my way through, painting partial faces, hands, skin, until something tells me to stop. The final abstract flourishes—my recurring language of abstract marks—are created using different paints, mediums, pencils, tools and application methods, and are a spontaneous response to the figurative elements and the space they hang within. My aim with each finished piece is to create a visual dialogue between each of these stages.

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

I would wager that any artist that seems “mad” would be far more mad without their outlet for creativity! That’s certainly true for me! I’ve always had what I would call a noisy brain, but making art cuts out the chatter. The only time where my mind is truly quiet is when I’m in a state of creative flow, completely immersed in what my hands are creating. I think that’s why I’d make a terrible teacher, because I’m not fully “in the room” when I’m making my best work – I’m not really thinking, I’m just doing. When you’re in that flow state, you’re tapping into your true self and expressing all that you are, which can be an incredibly healing and grounding thing. That being said, there is definitely a balance to be found if you’re a professional artist! There’s feeling and then there’s craft; if you’re solely focused on craft then it’s going to lack soul, but if it’s entirely feeling then it’s probably going to stray into “mad artist” territory!

Do academic institutions still play a vital role in shaping artists today, or has self-taught creativity disrupted this tradition?

I actually started a fine art degree in 2005, but very quickly realised it wasn’t going to suit me. I had my reservations going in, but it was presented as the only real option if I wanted to be a professional artist, so reluctantly I went ahead with it. As a pathological perfectionist, I desperately wanted to do well, and I did, but striving to get “top marks” sucked the joy out of it for me. I also entered having very clear ideas of what work I wanted to make and how I wanted to make it, which was an uncomfortable clash with the experimental spirit of the course that we were expected to embrace. There are many different ways of learning. We all have different conditions that we thrive in and personally I’ve always benefitted from being able to learn and discover alone and at my own pace. I also don’t like to be steered or influenced and I need time and space to go down multiple rabbit holes, make mistakes and learn through trial and error without the looming fear of a bad grade! I also find I can get easily distracted by what my peers are doing, particularly if I’m going through a period of change in my work. If I start to compare myself to others, it can either influence me too heavily or blunt my creativity altogether, so sharing a studio was completely overwhelming. Unsurprisingly, I dropped out after the first year. At the time, my frustration and unhappiness felt like I’d failed, but with hindsight, I made peace with the fact that it just wasn’t the right fit for me! Academia is beneficial to so many people, but I find it really heartening to see other artists bypassing the traditional lines and finding alternative ways to flourish and be accepted into the art world. Art is so vast and varied and it invites innovation and unconventionality, so why should it be bound within the confines of academic structures? 

Name five pivotal lessons you’ve learned that shaped your artistic journey.

✧ Don’t follow trends or chase where you think the sales are. Follow your gut and make work that is honest and true to who you are. Your work will always be lacking if you are not completely, uniquely you. You are your USP.

 

✧ Mistakes are necessary for growth. Perfection doesn’t exist. Looking back at old work and cringing is a privilege; it means you’ve grown and improved. Art is not a destination, it’s a path of constant learning and discovery without an ending; that’s the beauty of it!

 

✧ Stop comparing yourself to other artists. When you’re suffering with creative block or when you feel like you’ve forgotten how to paint, don’t torture yourself by looking at other artists’ work. Instead look at your very best work; those pieces that make you think, “did I really make that?” get in close and analyse them. Spend some time with your work and actively seek out the joy in it.

 

✧ Know that sometimes you are capable of being your own worst enemy and that your own judgement is not to be trusted. Recognise negative self talk and then back away (all the way, right out of your studio!) before you destroy something that might actually be good with fresh eyes and a clear head!

 

✧ If you receive negative feedback, remember that you don’t like all art, so it’s okay that not everyone likes yours. (The same applies for people.)

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Lucy Pass continues to explore portraiture as a vessel for empathy and introspection, transforming personal emotion into a shared language of expression. Each work carries the imprint of vulnerability and resilience — fragments that mirror the complexity of being seen and understood. In this ever-evolving journey, art remains both compass and conversation, mapping the space between individuality and connection. What emerges is not a fixed identity, but a living dialogue between artist, subject, and viewer — a reminder that to create is to seek understanding, and to be understood in return.