by Mikkel Urup
My journey into art really began during childhood, though I didn’t realize it at the time. When I was trying to fall asleep, I’d look at the shadows on my bedroom walls—cast by plants, the door, or whatever else was around—and mentally manipulate them. I’d change the structure, alter the lines and forms, and create something entirely new in my mind. It became a kind of exercise that helped me drift off to sleep.
Fast forward to high school. I discovered that I could tap into all those years of mental practice. The style I’d developed unknowingly was suddenly there, ready to be expressed with ink on paper. What’s interesting is that I never consciously developed this style—it just emerged, almost fully formed, from those early experiences.
The first time I actually needed to draw something was when I had a vision of a snake—something I felt deeply connected to, from a past life. It was vivid, and I had to put it on paper. That drawing became my first real piece, born out of necessity. It was fascinating to see how that vision translated into a physical form, and from there, I realized that I had an interesting style when putting thoughts into black-and-white lines. The process felt natural, and it’s been fulfilling ever since.
The trail of the ink is final. It’s like when rain falls and carves lines into the ground—those lines deepen and become more natural over time. For me, the act of completing a drawing is instinctive. When I reach that moment of completion, it’s a very personal experience, as if I’ve solved the puzzle of how these forms can achieve perfect balance. I often start with a bit of a mess, trying to capture something, and then suddenly, the forms become integrated, woven together. At a certain point, I feel that adding anything more would destroy the balance, and that’s when I know it’s done. The result is often a very simplified piece of art, but one that feels naturally complete.
When I look at a person, I see something complex, which I then boil down to something simple. It’s similar to how caricatures work, but instead of exaggerating for humor, I distill the most important features to capture the essence. Because I can’t draw in a traditional sense, my simplification often results in forms that are slightly off, which adds an interesting quality. My audience might see something familiar, but it doesn’t quite look like a typical representation, and that’s probably what makes it intriguing. My weakness, my inability to draw traditionally, is offset by a stringent inner universe where I seek my own definition of the complete, and perhaps my weakness has become my strength.
I’m exploring archetypal male and female figures, focusing on strength, fighting, dancing, and intense moments of life—intercourse, anger, attraction, hunger—real moments. These themes fascinate me, particularly the aesthetic aspects of movement and balance. For instance, I’m inspired by very curvy women—possibly my weak spot—female forms that are almost impossibly dramatic, and by moments in sports where muscles are tense and poised, the moment of the kill or the perfect attack.
Capturing these moments in black and white means I can’t rely on detailed muscle fibers, but I can focus on balance points. I’m interested in the movement and balance of these figures, and in distilling their forms to understand what makes them beautiful or powerful. It’s an exploration of why certain shapes and forms are considered masculine or feminine, and what their intrinsic attraction is.
Music plays a crucial role in my creative process. I carefully select playlists that are intriguing and mesmerizing, with rhythms that keep me alert and engaged. The music influences my work in ways I might not expect, acting as a catalyst for creativity. It’s similar to how people use playlists to stay motivated in a fitness center—except in my case, the music needs to be sophisticated and unpredictable. It should keep me guessing while still feeling logical and satisfying. This balance helps me stay in the creative flow.
Putting my art out there is a vulnerable experience because it’s clear that my work reflects my personal tastes—whether it’s the aesthetics of fighting, the eroticism between the sexes, what attracts me sexually, or the appreciation of curvy forms. But I’m aware that my artwork isn’t explicit; the viewer has to finish it in their imagination. In that sense, the audience completes the artwork, making it a very personal experience for them as well. I feel strongly that the art indeed completes in the beholder’s mind. In a sense, I aim to enter the very minds of my audience.
Sometimes people tell me they find my work unique, especially professionals like gallerists and other artists. That kind of feedback is encouraging, but I also know that people might be a bit private about what my art evokes in them. There’s a bit of shame, perhaps, in enjoying scenes of fighting or intense eroticism, so they might not express everything they feel. However, I can often sense that they’re getting more out of it than they let on, and that is fine. We all have the privacy of our own minds, and in a sense, the minds of others pose an intense interest for me. It is the ultimate mystery, and by creating my art, I get to touch other people’s minds, enter their thoughts, and contribute to an experience—that is a great privilege.
One project I’m planning involves creating portraits of philosophers and religious leaders who have made a significant impact on me. I’m curious to see how my personal relationship with these figures will influence my artistic process. Drawing has always helped me understand things better, so I’m interested to see if I can capture some of what I’ve experienced from these individuals in a portrait. It’s a way for me to explore profound concepts of existence through art.
Ultimately, I hope my art engages people, challenges them, or makes them see the world—or themselves—in a new light. But above all, I want to communicate. I want people to look at my work and not just pass by. Nothing could be worse than someone walking through an exhibition of mine and not noticing what’s on the walls. I want to wake people up, to make them feel something—whether it’s beauty, intensity, or something else entirely. That’s what drives me as an artist.