Art and Aphantasia

When most people are told to "picture a sunset," their mind conjures an image. Now, try to hear your favorite song in your head. Recall the smell of coffee, or the taste of a lemon.

My mind doesn't do any of that. For me, that inner world is completely dark, silent, and without sensation.

This condition is called aphantasia, and for me, it’s total. It is the inability to voluntarily create any kind of sensory experience in my mind. So, the immediate and perfectly logical question is: how can I possibly be a visual artist?

It's a paradox I've spent my life navigating. This post is my attempt to explain my process, which doesn't rely on a mind's eye—or ear, or nose—but on a different set of tools: conceptual thinking, external references, and a constant dialogue with the physical work itself.

A Little More on Aphantasia

Before I go deeper into my own process, I thought it might be helpful to explain a little more about aphantasia itself. While people have lived with this experience forever, it was only formally named in 2015 by a team led by Professor Adam Zeman at the University of Exeter.

It's not an all-or-nothing condition but exists on a spectrum. On one end is hyperphantasia, where people experience mental imagery that is as vivid as real sight. On the other end is aphantasia, affecting an estimated 1-3% of the population. My experience is on the far end of that spectrum. As I mentioned, it often extends beyond the visual to all other senses, which is sometimes referred to as total or multi-sensory aphantasia.

(For those interested in learning more, I'd recommend looking up the work of Professor Zeman, or visiting resources like the Aphantasia Network online.)

Imagination Without Sensation

First, it’s important to clarify what total aphantasia isn't. It is not a lack of memory or a lack of imagination. I know what a sunset looks like. I can list its properties, like its colours and shape. For example, I can instantly recognize a familiar piece of music, and I know that a lemon is sour—I just can't conjure the sound or the taste on command. I have a deep well of factual and conceptual knowledge about the world. I just can't re-experience any of it.

My imagination, therefore, is not a sensory landscape. It is not a gallery of images, a symphony of sounds, or a library of smells. It is a purely conceptual space—a web of words, facts, relationships, and emotions. An idea for a sculpture doesn't begin with an image. The art begins as a flicker of curiosity or an intuitive pull toward an idea, and my process is about discovering its physical form in the real world.

A Process of Discovery

Since I cannot prototype in my mind, my entire creative process must be externalized. It doesn't follow a clear plan. It begins with that initial spark of curiosity, and from there, I just start working. I don't gather reference photos or create detailed blueprints; I go directly to the material—the clay, the digital model, the blank canvas—and begin.

This is a process of pure discovery, driven by an insatiable curiosity to see what might emerge. Often, these explorations go nowhere. But sometimes, through the physical act of making, I find something worth pursuing. This is where the dialogue begins, and it is the absolute core of my work. Because I have no mental image to compare the work to, my creation happens through a constant back-and-forth with the piece itself. This is especially challenging with painting; I can't picture how a color will look on the canvas before I apply it. I simply have to put a color down, step back, and then react to it. One brushstroke informs the next. The artwork grows organically, not from a plan, but from a series of actions and reactions until it finds its own resolution.

The Unexpected Advantages

While it may seem like a limitation, working with total aphantasia has shaped my artistic voice in ways I wouldn't trade.

Because I can't hold a "perfect" finished piece in my mind, I'm less precious about the outcome. I'm free from the disappointment of a final piece not matching a flawless mental blueprint, because no such blueprint exists. This allows me to be more present in the process and more open to the unexpected directions the work wants to take.

Furthermore, this process has taught me to have a deep trust in my intuition. Because I'm not always guided by a clear concept, I can't always articulate the 'why' of a piece when I begin. I have to trust the initial spark of curiosity and the intuitive decisions made during the dialogue with the work. Often, the true meaning of the piece only reveals itself to me late in the process, or sometimes even after it's finished. I've learned that the 'why' doesn't always have to be the starting point; sometimes, it's the destination.

Conclusion

In the end, there is no single, correct way for a mind to create. My aphantasia is not a defect to be overcome; it is the foundation of my creative process. It forces me to find the tangible in a world of abstracts and to trust the dialogue between my hands and the physical world. It has shaped my process and, ultimately, the art I create.