VANTASY

Some artworks aren’t planned. They’re poured. Damasca was one of them.

I created this piece as a birthday gift for Adam—my partner, my mirror, and the man whose passions often become my own. We’d been building something beautiful together, quietly, day by day. Every dish he cooked, every table we set, every dinner party we hosted felt like a thread in something bigger. And I wanted to honour it—with something that took real time, presence, and soul.

At the time, Adam had become completely absorbed by the world of Damascus steel knives. Not just as tools—but as objects of artistry. The layers, the folds, the ripple-like patterns—he’d study them, talk about them, obsess over the metallurgy, bevels, handles, edge retention. I began to see what he saw. And like everything we do, it wasn’t long before my creative world met his.

So I drew.

I don’t get much time to create fine art these days. I’m always designing, always building—tattooing, managing production, running VANTA. But putting pencil to paper is still sacred to me, and digital painting has become the only way I can keep that part of me alive. With the pace life moves, digital tools let me layer, refine, adjust—without the fear of ruining a piece halfway through. One day, I’ll go back to paper. Hand to paper. But this wasn’t that time.

Over the course of 80+ hours on iPad, I built this artwork stroke by stroke.

A serene woman stands at the centre, calmly slicing steak—the same way Adam does each night in our kitchen. The knife in her hand is his most prized. Rendered with the same precision he gives to cooking.

Below her, on the ground—our cat Dibs, sitting in her usual spot, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for a scrap to fall. That part wasn’t fictional. It happens nightly.

Once the drawing was complete, I printed it larger than life—432 × 1050mm, using my fine art printer. Then, in a final layer of reverence, I hand-embellished the blade with copper gel pen, tracing the Damascus folds with shimmer and shine that catch the light like real steel. That detail brought it to life. It became a ritual of its own.

We mounted the print in our cooking room, beside the handmade pasta, Adam’s collection of fine dining plates, and our matching Bravo uniforms—his tailored chef’s jacket, my custom waitress fit. Every time we leave the house or come home, we pass that print.

It’s not just artwork. It’s a glimpse into our future. A love letter in steel and ink.