How Architecture Shapes My Art Practice

​Architects and artists are trained to create in very different ways.

An architect begins with restrictions: a site, a function, a context. The process is not about self-expression, but problem-solving. You generate ideas, test them, refine the ones that hold. Every decision is tied to something real — light, structure, use, time. There’s a logic to it, a system.
Artists often begin from within — a feeling, a question, a sensation. The process is more intuitive. That doesn’t mean it’s chaotic. Artists develop technique and discipline, too. But they build the structure around the work, rather than before it.

I was trained as an architect, and that way of thinking still runs through everything I do — not just in how I make art, but in how I manage my entire practice.
When I begin a new piece, I start by evaluating the conditions.
Maybe it’s the materials like plasticine, sand, or both.
Maybe it’s the palette, the space where the piece will live, or the atmosphere I want to create.
These restrictions are not obstacles. They’re the framework.
From there, I project: I imagine possibilities. I sketch. I test.
Plasticine is dense and sculptural. Sand is fragile and elusive. Neither behaves like traditional paint. They force me to respond, to adjust as I go. It reminds me of working with a complex site, where the terrain pushes back and reshapes the design.
My workflow reflects this, too.
I organise everything: files, colour variations, scanned versions, notes.
Each piece moves through phases: planning, testing, revision, construction.
Nothing is random. The process leaves a trail and I archive it all! Like architectural drawings, these records become part of the work’s identity.
My studio isn’t chaotic. It’s not overly polished, either.
It’s a space in development, like a project mid-construction.
Open to intuition, but always held by a structure.

I don’t see that as control.
I see it as care.

 Amarti

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