CRITICAL REFLECTION
In Unit 1, I developed the conceptual and material foundations of my project by initiating a sculptural practice in collaboration with mycelium—not only as a biological medium but also as a symbol of interconnection, transformation, and regeneration. Mycelium’s properties—its capacity to decompose and renew, to form invisible yet essential networks—offered a rich starting point for exploring questions of sustainability, identity, and the potential for reconnection in a fragmented world. I envisioned a body of work that extended beyond static sculpture, incorporating sound, light, and other sensory dimensions to create immersive experiences that speak to deeper ecological and emotional realities.
The project outlined a series of guiding inquiries: the use of mycelium as a sustainable, recyclable material; its structural intelligence as a model for cooperative systems; its relevance to biomimetic and post-human design; and its challenge to rigid constructs of the body, identity, and gender. A central sculptural piece emerged early in this process—a fragmented womb containing an unborn human figure, made from mycelium. This impossible form became a visual metaphor for humanity’s disconnection from the natural world and a call to awaken to the urgency of our present ecological and social condition.
With this conceptual groundwork in place, I entered Unit 2 by translating those ideas into practice. I began hands-on experiments with substrate composition, moulding techniques, and environmental variables for growth. Alongside the material development, I continued refining the performative and experiential aspects of the work to enhance its impact. Collaboration remained central—not only with peers and mentors, but with the material itself, which responds to time, temperature, humidity, and chance. Working this way has prompted me to continually reflect on control, authorship, and the artist’s role in an unpredictable and shifting world.
I ran a series of material tests using three main substrates—sugarcane bagasse, sawdust, and blended cardboard—each enriched with various flours and oats to feed the mycelium. I evaluated each mix based on colonisation speed, resistance to contamination, structural strength, and shrinkage.
The most successful formulation was then used in a small, highly detailed figurative sculpture, designed to assess how much precision mycelium can retain from a silicone mould.
This sculpture was later exhibited at Millbank Tower as part of a collaboration with my classmate Hanz, where we explored the sonic potential of fungi through bio-sonification—turning the hidden life of the material into an audible experience.
The experience at Millbank Tower became a turning point in the way I understood the role of control in my practice. Initially, we manipulated the electric signals generated by the mushrooms, overlapping and processing them to make them sound more like conventional music.
We shaped nature into patterns we could recognise. But I began to question this act: were we listening, or were we imposing? Lao Tzu’s teachings in the Tao Te Ching came to mind, particularly his concept of wu wei—non-action or effortless action.
By trying to mould the mushroom signals into human musical structures, we were denying the natural flow of their expression. Lao Tzu warns that naming, categorising, and controlling blinds us to the essence of things: "If we limit ourselves to a number of notes, we are deaf. If we limit life to a number of named colours, we are blind." Inspired by this, I chose to stop filtering the signals—to let the fungi speak their own language. It may not resemble what we typically call music, but it is an expression of life unbounded by our frameworks.
This decision ushered in a new chapter in my work: one grounded in surrender, trust, and deep listening.
Simultaneously, I began building a larger, more detailed figurative sculpture intended to serve as the centrepiece of my MA project. This piece was completed in my studio and transported to UAL to begin the mould-making and inoculation phases. However, during the move, the sculpture was severely damaged. At first, the setback felt devastating—weeks of labour cracked and broken. But over time, the experience became integral to the process. The rupture reminded me that permanence is an illusion, that fragility is part of existence, and that meaning often arises not from avoiding difficulty but from how we meet it.Mould-making revealed profound and paradoxical layers within the creative process, especially when I considered the delicate balance between control and fragility.
During the modelling stage, I had to hold my breath and still my body for several seconds at a time to preserve the finest details—a wrinkle, an eyelid—capturing the vulnerability of a living form. This act of restraint was an intense exercise in mindfulness and presence. Every slight tremor could alter the surface, so the sculptural practice demanded an intimate dialogue between my body and the material, a momentary suspension of natural rhythms to achieve precision.Yet, this very fragility contrasts sharply with the mould-making phase, where the sculpture must be encased in silicone, effectively suffocating and immobilizing it. The original form, once so tenderly shaped, is subjected to a process that inevitably leads to its fragmentation or even destruction to create a mould. To replicate, to preserve an image, the original must be broken.
This unavoidable rupture embodies a profound tension: creation is inseparable from destruction; preservation requires sacrifice.This duality echoes deeper philosophical themes about life and art. It recalls the wisdom of Epictetus, who taught us to distinguish what is within our control and what is not. I could control the modelling—the stillness, the breath, the detail—but not the mould-making’s demands or the eventual breaking of the sculpture. Acceptance of this dynamic became essential.
The process of creation is not linear or purely additive; it is cyclical, fragile, and contingent.In this tension between holding breath and breaking form, between control and surrender, the artwork reveals its true nature. It embodies transformation—not just as a metaphor but as a lived experience of impermanence and renewal. Like the mycelium that grows through decay and change, the sculpture’s life is shaped by these opposing forces.
Destruction becomes a form of creation; fragility invites strength; loss opens the possibility of rebirth.Marcus Aurelius reflected on similar paradoxes when he said, “Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature’s delight.” To create art, I had to delight in the changes, even the painful ones. The breakage was not failure but part of the evolving narrative—the sculpture’s becoming. In holding my breath, I exercised control and presence; in breaking the form, I embraced transformation and growth.This interplay—of breath held and form broken—became a meditation on balance itself. How do we live between control and chaos? Between nurturing the delicate and facing inevitable destruction? The sculpture asked me to engage with this question physically and philosophically, teaching that both extremes are necessary and interconnected.
Neither fragility nor force alone can sustain life or art; only their balance can foster true emergence.The central concept of the womb came to hold deeper resonance. A fully developed human suspended in an impossible pre-birth state became a symbol—not of literal gestation, but of potentiality locked behind mental or emotional barriers.
The womb, in this context, becomes a metaphor for the internal walls we construct around ourselves—walls built from fear, trauma, ego, or disconnection.
To awaken is to break through those walls, to come into presence, to live consciously and in harmony with one’s own nature. From that place of inner clarity, genuine connection with others becomes possible.
This awakening is not a grand event but a daily practice—an ongoing effort to perceive clearly, to act in alignment with one’s values, and to accept the flow of events beyond one’s control.
The practice of centering oneself amidst chaos, of acting with reason and intention despite external unpredictability, is mirrored in the very nature of working with living material like mycelium.
The fungus does not force its growth; it responds to its environment. It thrives where it can, adapts where needed, and withdraws when it must. In that sense, it models a wisdom of being—responsive, resilient, and grounded in the present.
During this same period, my personal life underwent a complete transformation. A series of unexpected and difficult events forced me to adapt rapidly to new circumstances. These shifts deepened the emotional charge of the project and gave new weight to its themes. I began to see the sculpture not only as a physical object but as a living record of my own evolution.
The mushrooms that slowly will emerge from the surface are going to mirror this process—growing silently, reshaping the form, and altering its meaning as they spread.
The work has become, in many ways, a journal. It absorbs change, embraces imperfection, and offers a space for reflection. For those who engage with it—whether deeply or momentarily—I hope it provokes a question: Am I present? Am I awake to my life? Even if the viewer doesn’t grasp every layer of its construction, perhaps it will spark a shift—a subtle realignment in how they see themselves, their place in the world, and the invisible threads that connect us all.
This interplay between material and metaphor, between failure and insight, is not accidental. It speaks to the kind of life I wish to engage with: one that does not resist change but finds depth through it.
The mushrooms do not ask for ideal conditions; they grow where decay sets in, where things fall apart. This project, in its fullest expression, has taught me something similar. Growth does not follow a straight line. It emerges in the cracks, in the letting go, in the decision to start again with greater understanding.
The philosophical foundation that guides this body of work values clarity, resilience, and presence. It proposes that the external world is often beyond our control, but our inner response is not.
The way we interpret and engage with adversity defines the quality of our lives and our work. In choosing to respond with curiosity and courage instead of frustration or defeat, I found renewed energy to continue the project—to work with the damage rather than against it, to allow the process to unfold rather than force an outcome.
In doing so, the sculpture began to evolve into something more layered and honest.The very idea of creating a perfect form gave way to the realization that truth often lies in the imperfect, the disrupted, the vulnerable. I began to see the project not as a monument to technical skill, but as a conversation with time, material, and self.
The growth of the mycelium, the fragility of the mould, the unpredictability of life—all became part of the piece.This reframing also shaped the way I considered audience engagement. I am not presenting a static sculpture for passive observation. I am inviting a shared space of inquiry and reflection.
The piece asks viewers to slow down, to observe the details, to notice how life grows even from brokenness. It asks them to listen—not only to the bio-sonic sounds captured in the exhibition, but to the quieter signals within themselves.In its final form, the central sculpture holds within it multiple narratives: the material journey of the mycelium; the symbolic journey of the unborn figure; the personal journey of the artist; and the broader societal journey towards reconnection with nature and with each other. It resists easy categorization and does not offer neat answers. Instead, it opens a space—physical and emotional—where transformation is not only possible, but inevitable.
This project has ultimately become a meditation on the nature of becoming. Just as the mycelium transforms its substrate, this work has transformed me. It has reminded me that art is not simply about creating objects, but about participating in cycles of emergence, dissolution, and renewal.
The sculpture is a snapshot of that ongoing movement—a moment of becoming, suspended but alive.And perhaps this is the deepest message of the work: that we are always in process.We are not fixed, not finished. Like the mycelium, we are connected, responsive, and capable of change.The sculpture may one day decompose.
The materials will return to the earth. But the insights gained through its making—the clarity found in difficulty, the strength discovered in surrender, the connection felt through presence—will endure in the hearts and minds of those who encounter it.
If life is a continuous flow, then art is the moment we pause to witness it. And in that pause, we may find not only beauty, but also a guide for how to live with in
PROCESS
MATERIAL TESTS
As part of the development of my highly detailed scale sculpture, I conducted extensive material tests to understand how different substrates would behave under the specific demands of precision moulding and fungal colonisation.
I trialled multiple substrate compositions using sugarcane bagasse, sawdust, and blended cardboard—each mixed with combinations of wheat flour, oat flour, and psyllium husk to feed and support the growth of mycelium.
The primary goal was to evaluate how well each mixture could retain surface detail, resist contamination, and maintain structural integrity through the drying phase. Some tests produced promising results in terms of colonisation speed and overall growth, but failed to preserve the level of detail sculpted into the original form. In particular, cardboard-heavy mixes shrank significantly, deforming the structure, while sugarcane mixes proved prone to contamination in higher humidity. Sawdust, when finely ground and mixed with oat flour, produced the most consistent and clean results—but even then, the final texture softened the sharp anatomical features I had modelled in plasticine.
These “failures” were frustrating but ultimately necessary. They revealed the limits of precision within living systems and taught me to shift my expectations. Mycelium is not a passive material to be dominated; it is a living agent with its own logic and needs. Rather than fighting to preserve every detail, I began to see the deformation as a collaboration between intention and nature—a co-authored form shaped by both human effort and fungal life.
This process reaffirmed one of the core themes of my project: the value of letting go. The material tests reminded me that beauty and meaning often arise not in achieving control, but in embracing change and allowing space for the unexpected to emerge process to unfold rather than force an outcome.
MODELING
The modelling phase of the sculpture was an exercise in discipline, presence, and humility. Working in plasticine, I aimed to shape a human figure with as much anatomical precision as my current skill allowed—refining muscle, skin, and posture with deliberate attention. This was not simply about representing the body accurately, but about training my hand and eye to observe, to interpret, and to impose structure onto a formless mass. It was a meditative process, requiring stillness and patience. Every gesture of the tool was intentional; every curve refined over time.
Yet I approached this labour with full awareness that the form I was crafting would not survive in its current state. Once cast in silicone and inoculated with mycelium, the figure would begin to shift, soften, and evolve—its clarity eroded by growth and decay. I was modelling something that was destined to deform.
This paradox lies at the heart of the work. The act of shaping plasticine becomes a metaphor for our human desire to impose order, to leave a perfect mark. But in this case, perfection is temporary, and control is illusory. The precision of the modelling stands in deliberate contrast to the organic unpredictability of what follows. It becomes a gesture of respect—both for the tradition of sculpture and for the forces of nature that will inevitably alter it.
Through this process, I explored the tension between mastery and surrender. I poured intention into a form I knew I could not keep. And in doing so, I found something deeper: a practice of letting go, of allowing impermanence to enter the studio, and of embracing transformation as not a failure of craft, but its extension.
MOULD-MAKING
The mould-making process was both technically demanding and emotionally charged. After spending weeks carefully modelling the one-third human-sized sculpture in plasticine—capturing anatomical detail and form with precision—I prepared it for mould-making.
The goal was to preserve every subtle texture and contour by casting it in silicone. However, during transportation to the workshop, the sculpture suffered a significant rupture. Initially, this felt like a devastating loss, a collapse of effort and intention.
But this rupture became a turning point. Rather than abandoning the piece or attempting to repair it perfectly, I chose to work with the damage. This experience echoed the core philosophy of the project: impermanence, resilience, and transformation. In Stoic terms, it became an embodiment of the idea that "the obstacle is the way." The mould was created from the fragmented sculpture, and this act of casting through breakage introduced a new layer of meaning—showing that creation often requires surrender. The cracks became part of the narrative, a reminder that vulnerability is not a flaw, but a site of potential.
SUMMER SHOW PROPOSAL
The sculpture will be presented as the central piece during the MA Summer Show, forming the core of a broader installation that encapsulates the conceptual, material, and sensory dimensions of my current practice.
At its heart is a suspended, figurative sculpture composed of mycelium—a living material that not only forms the physical body of the piece but also continues to evolve throughout the duration of the exhibition.
As the mycelium matures and mushrooms begin to grow, the sculpture will undergo a visible transformation, making time and organic change integral to its meaning.
The figure will be encased within a fragmented womb-like structure, 150 cm in diameter, meticulously crafted from papier-mâché. This cocoon-like shell serves as both a container and a threshold—symbolising the paradox of enclosure and potential, a gestational space that echoes themes of rebirth, fragility, and the unseen labor of becoming.
The womb, deliberately broken and incomplete, reveals the tension between protection and exposure, between what is held and what is released.To create a more holistic and immersive experience, the sculpture will be bio-sonified. It will be fitted with electrodes that capture the subtle electrical signals produced by the living mycelium.
These signals will be transmitted to a computer, processed in real time, and then amplified through a speaker. Rather than manipulating these sounds into recognisable musical forms, they will be presented as raw data—an unfiltered sonic presence that invites the audience to listen differently.
The installation becomes not only a visual experience but an aural one, offering the viewer a multisensory encounter with a living, growing organism. This work challenges conventional boundaries between life and art, sound and silence, and asks us to consider what it means to collaborate with nature rather than control it.
PROPOSAL FORM
RESEARCH FESTIVAL EARLY STAGE PROPOSAL
As part of my ongoing exploration into the artistic and practical applications of mycelium, I am proposing an early-stage research project that seeks to open up a broader dialogue about its potential across various disciplines.
My initial idea involves conducting a series of interviews with individuals from diverse fields—such as art, design, architecture, science, sustainability, and even philosophy—each sharing their perspectives on how mycelium can be applied or interpreted within their area of expertise. The aim is to trace connections between biological materiality and wider social, ecological, and conceptual frameworks.
These conversations will be recorded and later compiled into a short-form video or documentary-style piece that will serve both as a research artifact and a public engagement tool. This audiovisual format will allow the voices and ideas of others to play a key role in shaping and contextualizing the future direction of my own sculptural and interdisciplinary practice.
This proposal is still in an early developmental phase, and the format, tone, and collaborators may evolve, but the central goal is to use dialogue as a way to map out the multifaceted possibilities of working with mycelium—not only as a material but as a metaphor and a system of thinking.