This is a question I sometimes get asked, usually by people who imagine artists sitting in berets, staring into the middle distance, waiting for inspiration to strike. I regret to inform you that this is not how it works, at least not for me, a lesbian artist whose creative process involves procrastination, wordplay, vulvas, and a notes app that looks like the inside of my brain after three coffees and an unsolicited opinion.
If you look at my work, which you absolutely can do by clicking around my artwork sections like my art prints or original pieces, you will probably notice a theme, or several, or none at all depending on how much you have slept. There is humour, often dry and slightly odd, there are plays on words that arrived fully formed and then refused to leave, there are abstracted interpretations of the female form, there is lesbian art that does not apologise for existing, and there is a deep and ongoing interest in LGBTQ art and history that sits quietly underneath the jokes, like a sensible cardigan worn ironically.
So how do I decide what to draw as a lesbian visual artist, when everything feels like potential inspiration and also like too much effort at the same time. The short answer is that I do not decide, the longer answer is that inspiration stalks you once you tell it you are available, and the longest answer is this blog, which is an attempt to explain a process that is mostly vibes, lists, and trying not to panic.
Seeing ideas everywhere once you give yourself permission
Once you start actively looking for ideas, you cannot stop, it is not optional, it is a law of the universe, probably written down somewhere important next to gravity and why toast always lands butter side down. I genuinely believe this is a form of the law of attraction, except instead of manifesting a new kitchen or inner peace, you manifest ideas about lesbians, art, bodies, and puns at the exact moment you are trying to relax.
As a queer artist, once I said to myself, yes you are allowed to make work about lesbians, about queerness, about desire and humour and domesticity and the bits of LGBTQ history that get quietly forgotten, my brain went into overdrive. Suddenly everything was interesting, signage, overheard conversations, old archive photographs, my wife making a cup of tea, all of it became material. Lesbian art does not politely knock, it lets itself in and sits down.
This is one of the great joys of being an LGBTQ artist, because you are not just responding to the world as it is, you are responding to the world as it has often refused to see you. Queer art is not a niche, it is a lens, and once you start looking through it, you cannot unsee the possibilities.
The notes app is my true studio
I do not carry a sketchbook around with me like someone in a film, instead I have a notes folder on my phone with over 200 ideas in it, which is both comforting and deeply stressful. Some of these ideas are just words, phrases that made sense at the time and now read like a threat. Others are more detailed descriptions, full compositions written down because I was scared I would forget them if I went to make a cup of tea.
This is where a lot of my sapphic art begins, not on paper, but in fragments, a sentence, a thought, a title that makes me laugh in public and then worry people think I am unwell. Being a sapphic artist often means trusting that these half ideas will eventually grow into something visual, even if right now they are just floating around looking smug.
If you scroll through my latest artwork, you can often trace a finished piece back to a single line in my notes app that did not let me rest. The notes app is a place of low commitment and high promise, and for a procrastinator like me, it is perfect, because it allows me to feel productive without actually having to draw anything yet.
Procrastination as a creative personality trait
I am a procrastinator, not in a fun, glamorous way, but in a deeply specific way that involves wanting things to look exactly how they look in my head, and then feeling distressed when my hands do not immediately obey. This is less of a flaw and more of a personality feature at this point, and it absolutely shapes how and what I create as a lesbian artist.
When I have a very clear image in my mind, something representational, something that relies on accuracy, I put it off, because the risk of disappointment is too high. Abstract work feels kinder, more forgiving, because no one expects it to look like anything in particular, including me. This is why a lot of my LGBTQ art leans towards abstraction, suggestion, and shape, rather than realism.
As a Queer artist, abstraction also feels politically interesting, because it allows the female form to exist without being pinned down, named, or consumed in the usual ways. You can see this across a lot of queer art history, the refusal to be legible on someone else’s terms, the decision to be felt rather than explained.
Humour as a way in, not a distraction
People sometimes think that humour in art means the work is not serious, which is deeply funny to me, because humour is how I survive most things. My approach to lesbian art often starts with a joke, a play on words, or an observation that made me laugh, and then quietly builds something more thoughtful underneath it, like a Trojan horse, but with better typography.
Humour is an invitation, it says you can come in, you can relax, you do not need a degree in art history to be here, and once you are inside, you might notice that this piece is also about desire, visibility, or the joy of seeing yourself reflected back at you. That is a very queer strategy, and one that has been used by LGBTQ artists for decades, even if they were not always credited for it.
Learning from lesbian and queer art history
I am not making work in a vacuum, even when it feels like I am just sitting on the sofa staring at my iPad. Lesbian art has a long and complicated history, much of it under documented, mislabelled, or quietly absorbed into broader categories without acknowledgement. Learning about lesbian artists who came before me has given me permission to take myself seriously, even when my subject matter involves puns.
I am constantly aware of the line between making work that feels personal and contributing to a wider visual language of queerness. Queer art has always done this balancing act, being intimate and political at the same time, and I like existing in that tension, because it feels honest.
There is also something comforting about knowing that other sapphic artists have struggled with the same questions, what to show, what to hide, how to be visible without being consumed, and how to make work that feels true when the world would often prefer you to be quieter.
My wife as muse, collaborator, and unsuspecting subject
A lot of my current work is inspired by my wife, which sounds very romantic and also slightly alarming when I specify that several pieces are inspired by her vulva. This is not meant to be shocking, it is meant to be affectionate and a little bit funny, because bodies are funny, especially when you love the person they belong to.I’ve always said that my wife's vulva looks like a Virgin Mary statue with all the robes, and thats how it all started. I am currently working on a few new ideas based solely around her lady garden.
Drawing inspiration from my wife feels natural, because she is part of my everyday life, and lesbian art has always been about the domestic as much as the dramatic. The female form does not need to be idealised or distant, it can be familiar, known, and deeply specific, which is something sapphic art does particularly well.
Deciding what makes it out of the notes app
Not every idea becomes a finished piece, and that is probably for the best. Deciding what to draw is often less about choosing the best idea and more about noticing which one refuses to leave you alone. As a queer artist, I have learned to pay attention to the ideas that keep resurfacing, the ones that feel relevant weeks or months later, because they usually have something to say.
Sometimes an idea waits until I am ready for it, which sounds very mystical but mostly means I was too tired or stressed to do it justice before. Other times, I start something and abandon it halfway through, which is not a failure, it is research, and I will stand by that.
Why I keep doing it
I keep making lesbian art because it still feels necessary, because representation is not a box you tick once, because humour and beauty and desire deserve space on the wall. I keep doing it because someone will see a piece and feel understood, or laugh, or both, and because I still have 200 ideas in my phone that would be annoyed if I ignored them.
If you are curious to see how all of this thinking turns into actual objects, you can explore my full artwork collection, which is essentially my notes app, but prettier and with less swearing.
A final, slightly unhelpful answer
So how do I decide what to draw as a lesbian artist. I pay attention, I write things down, I avoid anything that feels too scary until it stops being scary, I trust humour, I trust abstraction, I look at my wife, and I accept that inspiration will keep turning up whether I am ready or not.
That is probably not a neat answer, but it is an honest one, and it has worked so far, which feels like enough to keep going.
If you’ve read this and thought, yes, this explains a lot, you can see how all of these ideas, notes-app thoughts, procrastination spirals, and moments of inspiration turn into actual lesbian art over in my shop. There you’ll find prints and originals rooted in queer art, sapphic humour, abstract bodies, wordplay, and the ongoing attempt to make sense of the world using ink and questionable ideas.
Have a look, see what speaks to you, or just confirm your suspicion that this is exactly what happens when a lesbian visual artist is left alone with her thoughts for too long.