The Drawing Style I Didn’t Know I Had

It wasn’t something I set out to define. I’ve drawn this way for as long as I can remember, but the shape of it — the tone, the throughline — didn’t register until much later, when the drawings began to look like they belonged together.

They were never meant to be nostalgic. But over time, a certain atmosphere appeared — quiet scenes from a place slightly out of reach. A man walking to his shed. A family sitting down to dinner. A house that looks closed for the season. Some are based on memory, others on observation, but they tend to settle in the same era: somewhere between the 1930s and 1960s, somewhere northern.

I usually begin with a pencil sketch — sometimes in a notebook, other times on the back of something already used. I’ll redraw the same shape a few times until it feels right. When it does, I tend to leave it. I rarely use an eraser, unless I’m drawing foliage, snow, or a texture that needs softening. The more I try to clean it up, the more the original tone slips away.

My great-granduncle Aage Rasmussen was an illustrator and poster artist. His work often featured trains and structures — including the Storstrøms Bridge in 1937, which he illustrated to mark its inauguration. We didn’t speak much about it, but his prints were always around in relatives’ homes. I think that matters. Seeing drawing as something both creative and useful.

My illustrations are quieter. I tend to draw streets, small figures, or northern landscapes — moments that might otherwise go unnoticed. Even the brighter pieces, like the campground drawing, are built on the same foundation: a still frame, held just long enough to register.

I wouldn’t call it a style exactly. But it’s how I draw. And after enough repetition, it began to feel like mine.

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You can see more of these illustrations — along with newer pieces and process sketches — on my Art Portfolio page.