ARTIST PROFILE | SHAANEA MENDIS

I would certainly view my work as a form of advocacy. It is a silent cry, both internally and externally. I often think, ‘Who am I to impose my opinion?’ But I also believe that each of us is a tiny part of a much larger picture—where many small voices contribute to collective change. Mine is an invitation to not only observe, but to observe our collective potential. If you feel it, and it resonates with you, then it has done its work.

What’s the very first thing you do when you sit down to paint? Any rituals you can share?

It really depends on my mood, each day is different. I usually arrive at my studio after the morning rush of getting my kids ready and dropping them off to school, either via my cargo bike or by bus or metro or train. Once I am in my studio, I make myself a cup of coffee, sometimes have a chat with a fellow artist in the studio. At other times I am completely alone, which is also nice to prepare to immerse myself fully. I plug in headphones, if others are around, and listen to music or a podcast while painting, it is either the meditative sounds of the forest, flutesong, Indian tabla or something more upbeat.

My taste in music is rather eclectic. It could be anything varying from Billie Eilish and Lady Gaga, Andrea Bocelli, to Wardruna (Nordic folk-music), or metal/punk rock – the likes of Rammestein and Dropkick Murphys.

I may also pause to gain some daily inspiration, seek out a mantra of the day to motivate myself, reflect on my thoughts, and be present with myself and the energy surrounding me that day. A few deep breaths, and I am good to go.

I often also work at night, when the kids are asleep. I find this is the time that my mind can truly shut out the rest of the world & all distraction. 

Your process is inspired by mark-making in nature for example the grain of skin and the venations on leaves. What does your process of gathering these visual impressions look like?.

Like nature itself, my process mirrors the cycles of growth, decay, regeneration, and renewal. I approach each piece freely, allowing pigment and brush to find their own path, and responding intuitively. Sometimes I make mistakes, undo, and repair—and that too becomes part of the process. Just like healing, it’s about patience, repetition, forgiveness, and trust.

The process of gathering these visual impressions began very early in my life, even in childhood. I was always drawn to noticing patterns, the delicate and intricate details, and the subtle textures in my everyday surroundings. These markings and textures became imprinted in my memory, forming a kind of internal archive or database of organic mark-making drawn from the natural world. As I work, I draw upon this archive, translating those impressions onto paper or canvas. More recently, I have even begun weaving them sculpturally into the air, allowing these visual memories to take on new spatial forms.

Right: The Memory of a Childhood Garden I, 2024, Watercolour on Paper, 30 x 23 cm

Exhibited at Saskia Fernando Gallery, Colombo, Sri Lanka, 2025

Your ‘cellscapes’ merge biological forms with traces of urban life. How do you navigate the tension between the organic and the industrial in your work?

The biological elements tend to appear more rounded and curved, evoking softness and fluidity, while the urban references are expressed with sharper geometry and angular edges. I build and cluster these cellular forms so they intertwine, almost as if they are negotiating space with one another. Materials also play a role, by interspersing gold leaf and oxidized surfaces, I echo that push and pull between delicacy and resilience, the natural and the manufactured.

Shaanea's studio in Copenhagen, Denmark

There’s an ecological undercurrent in your latest solo exhibition Remember to Breathe. Do you see your work as a form of advocacy, or more as an invitation to observe?

I would certainly view my work as a form of advocacy. I would say it is more a silent form of advocacy, where I am not shouting it in your face, but it is a silent cry , both internally and externally. I often think ‘who am I to impose my opinion?’ ( but a tiny part of a much larger picture, where several tiny parts are doing their bit, each in their capacity of different formats of advocacy, and mine is an invitation to not only observe but observe this collective potential) … the best I can do is to express myself, through my work, and put my feelings and opinions down on my paper or canvas, and engage in a visual dialogue with my audience. If you feel it, and if it resonates with you, then it is successful for me.

I was always drawn to noticing patterns—the delicate, intricate details and subtle textures in my surroundings. These markings became imprinted in my memory, forming an internal archive of organic forms. As I work, I draw upon this archive, translating those impressions into visual language—sometimes even sculpting them into the air.

 

In your work, healing is portrayed as cyclical and intuitive, rather than linear. How does this philosophy translate into your working process?

Like nature itself. The processes of growth, decay, regeneration, renewal, are mirrored in my work and working process. I approach the painting quite freely, allowing the pigment mixed with oil/watercolour and my brush to find its own path, and I respond to it intuitively. It’s less about controlling the outcome and more about being present with what emerges. Which relates back to life as well.

Remember to Breathe, Saskia Fernando Gallery, Colombo, Sri Lanka, 2025

I often return to the same forms and gestures, but each time there is the potential to shift and evolve. Sometimes I pause, sometimes I rework, sometimes I let go altogether. Sometimes I make mistakes and undo and repair which is a part of the process which also works its way intuitively. Just like healing, it’s about patience, repetition, and trust and it is forgiving. Knowing that every layer, every mark, contributes to the whole, even if it isn’t immediately visible, and recognising that there is a process to it.

Left: I am a Work in Progress, 2025, Mixed Media

Right: Artist working on the Installation

My sculptural work emerged from a longing to bring my drawings to life—drawings in the air, casting shadows, projecting memory. It began with pipe cleaners, then jute string, and then the finger knitting my daughters were learning. What began as play became a meditative act of making, linking back to childhood memories of my grandmother trying to teach me to knit—something I once couldn’t master, but now return to with peace and purpose.

Your finger-knitted sculptures mimic the structures in your paintings. How did fibre and handicraft enter your process and what does it add to your artistic practice?

I have been feeling the urge to experiment and translate my drawings and paintings into three dimensional forms for some time now and play with sculptural installation. The intention was to make the works come alive, by playing with sculptural drawings in the air projecting shadows. This initially began with a pencil drawing which I likened to the shadow play of an installation form I visualised in my mind. The fibrous networks were further influenced by Chiharu Shiota’s work Multiple Realities which I was fortunate to witness in person in 2023 at the Cisternerne in Denmark, an encounter that underscored the immersive and transformative potential of spatial form.

This adds an exciting new dimension to my work, where I see vast potential for sensorial experimentation, exploration and further organic growth.

I initially played with weaving jute string and pipe cleaners into sculptural network forms. During this phase of experimentation I watched my daughters learn and experiment with a finger knitting technique they were taught at school. I felt a connection with this immediately and observed how it closely connected back with my own practice and the contemplation on how knitting was something my beloved late maternal grandmother tried to teach me as a child, of how I could never master it, and how it brought about my earliest feelings of frustration with my-self and the world. How I have now come full circle for my kids to be able to teach it back to me, and it is by contrast a meditative practice in itself, much like my drawing and painting practice.

Left: Detail of  Greenwash III, 2025, Watercolour and Gold Leaf on Paper, 30 x 42 cm

Right: Greenwash III, 2025, Watercolour and Gold Leaf on Paper, 30 x 42 cm

You’ve lived in Colombo, Mumbai, Singapore and now Copenhagen. How have these shifts in geography influenced the way you think about space, landscape and belonging in your work?

Mumbai and Singapore, though contrasting in many ways, felt similar to me in one crucial sense. Both are densely built, fast-paced cities where I never found a sense of belonging. What they shared, and what kept me from feeling at home, was a lack of connection to the natural environment. Singapore may be carefully landscaped as a “garden city,” yet it always felt artificial. In Mumbai, you would have to travel miles to find a park or even a small patch of grass. This stood in stark contrast to my childhood in Colombo. Growing up in the suburbs of Udahamulla and Battaramulla, I spent my days outdoors, constantly playing and exploring the garden. Even in school, at Ladies’ College, I was surrounded by the lush greenery of its grounds. That closeness to nature shaped me, and its absence in Singapore and Mumbai left me with a profound sense of disconnection—like a wild animal removed from its habitat. Now, in Copenhagen, I feel I am rediscovering that delicate balance: finding calm in the midst of chaos, and the possibility of a home away from home. I do not miss the high-rises or the crush of dense populations. At a time when other aspects of life may feel as though they are collapsing, the healing presence of nature has been restored to me—just when I need it most.

How has your process evolved through the years?

From monochromatic line doodling at the early age of about 12 inspired by the pattern of a fingerprint, to the birth of the cellscape series in pen and ink and watercolour. Biologists and medical professionals often tell me my work looks like that of a microscopic view of cells on a histology slide, which was when the idea to use watercolor alongside my monochromatic line work and mark making began in 2012.

If viewers could leave Remember to Breathe with just one realisation or sensation, what would you hope it to be?

To find the calm in chaos we all seek. To pause in meditation & reflection and to simply remember to breathe. To connect and be present with themselves, each other and nurture our inner and outer surroundings alike.