Madeleine Cunliffe draws on Post-it Notes, napkins, fogged windows, and in the sand with sticks. The medium has never felt like a choice so much as a reflex, something that predates any formal artistic identity. Mostly deaf until the age of eleven, Madeleine Cunliffe spent those early years watching rather than participating, studying faces, gestures, and the unspoken language of other people. That formative distance never entirely dissolved. Instead, it became the emotional core of a practice centred on self-portraiture: quiet, introspective drawings that turn inward in order to reach outward, using the precision of the personal to create space for the universal.

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Why have you chosen drawing as your primary art form?

There is something deeply fundamental about drawing. The instinct to make a mark, to trace a feeling or an observation into the world, is one of the oldest human impulses. That history is part of what draws me to it. It gives the medium a sense of timelessness, but also a sort of intimacy: in drawing, you participate in an act shared across time, one that transcends context, era, and culture. Drawing is the first experience most artists, including myself, have with making art. When I had no money for quality paints or paper, I simply drew on scraps and Post-it Notes with biros. It’s always been less a choice than a reflex, something embedded in who I am and how I process the world. For that reason, it’s not only my favourite medium, but the one I return to, time after time, as a way of understanding both my subjects and myself. In airports and waiting rooms, on napkins and fogged up windows, even with sticks in the sand, snow, and mud I draw. It’s what I’ve always done, and what I always will. 

​​Are there any artists who have informed your approach to subject matter?

My focus on self-portraiture is largely a result of my fascination with Frida Kahlo, who demonstrated that the self can be an inexhaustible and profound subject. Like her, I am drawn to the self as something inherently contradictory, capable of shifting so fluidly between strength and fragility, control and vulnerability, ever-changing, yet also our single constant in this world. The repetition of my own face in my work allows these shifts to surface over time, resisting any fixed definition of identity. By allowing myself to fill the role of both subject and artist, I, like Kahlo, can assert autonomy over how I am seen and challenge the historical tendency to cast women as objects of observation rather than as observers themselves. In another sense, I’ve found that the more precise and personal my observations are, the more space there is for others to find themselves within my work. Turning inward, as Kahlo did, has thus allowed me to capture something authentic not just about what it means to be me, but also about what it means to be human.

How has your childhood shaped the themes you explore in your art today?

For my early life I was mostly deaf, only gaining my hearing after a series of surgeries between the ages of nine and eleven. My failure to understand and communicate efficiently as a child meant I felt deeply removed from the world of people, life and sound. Rather than participating, I watched studying facial expressions, body language, and social interactions in an attempt to understand and belong. I suppose my fascination with portraiture, human behaviour, and even art itself stems largely from my early desire to observe and understand others, even if only from afar. Those crucial years impacted me deeply, and even today I still see traces of that heavy isolation and disconnect in my art. 

What do you think is the most meaningful role an artist plays in society today?

In a world that moves quickly and is saturated with information, I see immense value in the way artists can slow things down, creating space for reflection, recognition, and deeper understanding. By giving form to experiences and emotions that resist easy articulation, artists illuminate the subtle, often unspoken dimensions of human life. In doing so, they challenge norms, disrupt expectations, and offer new ways of seeing. Most importantly, though, artists create points of resonance between people who may otherwise feel isolated or misunderstood. This is especially significant in a time where disconnection feels so pervasive, as it allows individuals to recognise something of themselves in others. Consuming art has always been a way for me to find comfort in the knowledge that my feelings are not unique, but rather deeply human. I hope that in the solitary figures and quiet spaces of my own art, others may find a similar comfort.

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?

It’s not particularly important to me whether viewers fully understand the intended message of my work. I’d actually argue that the qualities of subtlety and introspection I am drawn to naturally resist clarity or literal reading. My goal is therefore not to communicate a single, fixed idea, but rather to evoke reflection, curiosity, and resonance. My viewers bring their own experiences and perspectives to my drawings, and those interpretations are as valid as any I might have intended. I think the power of art lies in that fascinating space between intention and perception, where what cannot be neatly explained or “correctly” understood can still be deeply felt.

Has social media democratized art or diluted its value? How do you feel platforms like Instagram influence modern creativity?

Social media has undoubtedly transformed the way art is shared, experienced, and valued, but for me, it’s the only reality I’ve known as an artist. Having grown up alongside platforms like Instagram and TikTok, the idea of making work without the possibility of immediately sharing it feels almost foreign. From the beginning, social media has been part of how I understand viewing and engaging with art. As a young artist, I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to share my work so easily, reaching people across the world and building an audience without relying on the traditional gatekeepers of galleries, publications, or institutions. At the same time, I’m very aware of how deeply these platforms shape the way I think about my work.

I sometimes catch myself considering how an image will appear on a screen, or whether it will hold attention in a fast-moving feed. The constant presence of an audience can be both motivating and distracting, and the pursuit of views can begin to shape creative decisions in ways that feel performative rather than genuine. Because of this, I’m learning to be more intentional with using social media as a tool for connection, while also ensuring that I am working for the integrity of the art itself, not for its reception.

Can you imagine ever choosing to stop creating art?

I honestly can’t imagine ever choosing to stop creating art. From a young age, drawing became the language I relied on when words failed me, and even now, creating art is inseparable from how I think, feel, and connect with others. To stop creating would feel like giving up a fundamental way of understanding life and engaging with the beauty and the strangeness of the world. In a deeper sense, though, it would be like giving up a piece of myself.

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What runs through this conversation, from the first mark made on a scrap of paper to the careful negotiation with social media's demand for attention, is a consistent and hard-won sense of purpose. Madeleine Cunliffe makes art as an act of understanding, of the self, of others, of the gap between the two. The solitary figures and quiet spaces that populate this work are not retreats from the world but invitations into it, offered to anyone who has ever felt that their experience was theirs alone. In the hope that they might recognise, looking at these drawings, that it never was.