About

Every series starts with something I can’t get out of my head.

I’m Daniel. A song, a place, a mood that refuses to resolve — that’s where a series begins, long before there’s anything to look at.

Before a single image exists, I write the rules: the palette, the quality of light, how an edge should break, what the work is allowed to feel like. I call it the style DNA, and it’s what makes ten separate pieces read as one body of work instead of ten nice pictures.

Then I compose, discard, and compose again. Most of what I make never leaves the studio. What survives gets prepared for print by hand — resolution, colour profile, margins, the way the edges sit inside a frame.

I draw with generative tools. The decisions are mine: what the series is about, what stays, what gets cut, and when it’s finished. Most of what gets made never ships. That judgment is the work.

How the work is made

I choose the surface one series at a time, from what the work is reaching for. Not every body of work is served by the same material, and defaulting to one would flatten the difference. Work that lives on colour and edge is printed on matte paper at 200 gsm: uncoated, no glare from any angle, detail intact in a room full of windows. Work conceived as painting is printed on canvas and stretched over an FSC-certified solid wood frame, where the weave catches light unevenly and the piece stops reading as a reproduction and starts reading as an object. The product page tells you which.

Either way it’s printed one piece at a time, at the production facility closest to you, and checked before it’s packed. Nothing is printed before it’s bought, so nothing is overproduced and nothing sits in a warehouse.

It also means your piece travels a short distance instead of crossing an ocean — faster delivery, no customs, and a considerably smaller footprint than the alternative.

Series, not singles

I work in closed series. Ten pieces, built on one palette and one quality of light. When a series is finished, it’s finished — I don’t add to it later.

That’s partly discipline and partly the point: a series is meant to hold together on a wall. Two or three pieces from the same body of work will always sit better beside each other than three pieces chosen one at a time.

Where to start

Out of the Dark was the first — grief and gold, a face surfacing where a moment ago there was nothing at all. Ten pieces on 200 gsm matte paper.

First Light is the coast in the hour before the day has decided what it will be. A fisherman throwing his net, two boards waiting on the sand, cloth breathing on a line. Ten pieces on canvas.

El Olivar is an olive grove at noon, when the shade has drawn in under the trees and the ground has gone to bone. Old wood, dry stone, patience arranged in rows. Ten pieces on canvas.

One Warm Light is what’s left after dark: a lantern at the end of a dock, one window still on, a fire small enough to warm almost nothing. In every piece there is exactly one warm light, and the water underneath gives it back. Ten pieces on 200 gsm matte paper.

One Torn Edge is ten places built the way a printer builds them — three flat inks on cream paper, no gradients, nothing blended. In every piece exactly one shape is torn instead of cut, and it is the only place the hand shows. Ten pieces on 200 gsm matte paper.

If you’d rather start from the wall than from the work, the shop is also sorted by room.

New series arrive a few times a year. If you’d like to see them first, there’s a short letter that goes out when one is finished. Nothing else, ever.

— Daniel, Ink & Halo
contact@inkandhalo.art