Beginnings

I didn’t grow up in a family of artists, at least not that we know of.
But creativity found me early.

In my first year of high school, I chose art as a subject — not out of certainty, but out of instinct. It felt like a risk at the time, one I took responsibility for early on. From that moment, I paid attention.

I remember the first time instinct turned into understanding. We were drawing from nature in pencil, learning to see shadow and light properly. Our teacher explained that nothing on a blank page is ever truly white — everything carries tone, and only the lightest highlights remain untouched.

I was drawing a dry leaf.

As I worked, it came together.

I remember thinking: this is how I see the world.

From then on, I challenged myself to improve — patiently, deliberately, and without shortcuts. Art wasn’t an escape for me; it became a practice. A way of noticing. A way of understanding.

I didn’t choose art because it was easy.
I chose it because it felt inevitable.

Wildlife & the rhino

My connection to wildlife didn’t arrive all at once. It unfolded quietly, over time.

My first visit to the Kruger National Park was as a teenager. The memory is faint now, but one image stayed with me — a leopard resting in the centre of a dry tree, not hiding, simply being. I only found the photograph years later. It’s grainy and distant, taken with an old camera, but the feeling of that moment never left me.

Years later, I returned to Kruger with my husband. We chose it as our honeymoon destination — not as an adventure, but as a place we wanted to be. It was there that something shifted more deeply.

We encountered a white rhino mother and her calf. The calf moved with an unexpected joy — clumsy, playful, utterly alive — while the mother stood patiently nearby, watchful and calm. The sight struck a nerve I hadn’t anticipated. I grew up with dogs, and in that rhino calf I recognised the same uninhibited spirit — strong, affectionate, entirely present.

In that moment, wildlife stopped being something I observed.
It became something I recognised.

This was during a time when rhino poaching was escalating rapidly. Knowing that a creature capable of such joy and gentleness was under threat felt unbearable. I realised then that appreciation wasn’t enough. I needed to be part of protecting what had given me so much.

That decision came long before Whimsical Collection existed — and long before I could afford to contribute in any meaningful way. Conservation was never a business strategy. It was, and remains, a personal responsibility.

The rhino came to represent more than itself. It became a symbol of the greater herd — of interconnected lives, shared vulnerability, and the quiet urgency of care. That symbolism was present from the very beginning, drawn by hand before there were products, collections, or a company.

Every piece I create begins as oil on canvas. The work exists first as fine art, before it ever becomes anything else. Through it, I try to celebrate wildlife — not through spectacle or fear, but through presence, dignity, and joy.

Because when people fall in love, they protect.