Jesperish is a dutch digital artist whose work invites viewers into a deeper exploration of self, emotion, and the unseen patterns that shape our lives. Growing up surrounded by creativity, Jesperish also faced anxiety and self-doubt—experiences that, rather than holding him back, became the foundation of his artistic voice. Through these challenges, he discovered a powerful truth: that personal growth often begins by allowing ourselves to explore what lies beneath the surface.
Influenced by the idea of the “permission slip”—a concept rooted in the belief that tools, symbols, or practices can help us access deeper parts of ourselves—Jesperish uses his art as an open invitation. His work doesn’t claim to hold answers. Instead, it creates space for reflection, transformation, and the freedom to engage with life more consciously.
Through gaming and digital media, Jesperish found a language for expressing the complex interplay between the digital age and our human essence. His pieces blend abstract forms with emotional depth, capturing the rhythm and nuance of inner landscapes. Drawing from architecture, global culture, and spiritual inquiry, his art reflects a search for balance—a visual expression of clarity emerging from complexity.
Jesperish’s innovative approach to NFTs and digital fine art has earned recognition from leading institutions, with work featured in prestigious auction houses including Christie’s and Sotheby’s.
The following is a conversation with Jesperish.
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Your work operates under the concept of "permission slips" - tools that help us access deeper parts of ourselves. This suggests art as catalyst rather than statement. How did you arrive at this philosophy, and how has it shifted your relationship with both creating and the expectations placed on digital artists in today's market?
Yes, my work is very much rooted in the concept of "permission slips" tools, techniques, or beliefs that we use to give ourselves permission to access deeper layers of reality or personal transformation. If your mind is like a locked door, a permission slip is the key you believe will open it. Eventually, you realize the door was never really locked, you just needed to believe you could walk through it.
From a young age, I was drawn to these tools, not out of trend, but from a deep personal need. I often felt fearful, insecure, and emotionally overwhelmed. Crystals and visualization were my starting points, simple tools that gave me a sense of safety and inner space. Over time, I naturally added practices like meditation, therapy, affirmations, and astrology. Each was a new "key," and each step brought me closer to myself.
Eventually, I began integrating sacred geometry and symbolism into my practice. It became a visual language, a way to reflect on my inner world and express emotional and meditative states. Moving the pencil became a healing act. The shapes I drew held space for both structure and fluidity, what I now see as the masculine and feminine energies in balance. I was doing all of this purely for myself, but something shifted when I started sharing it: people began to resonate, often in ways they couldn’t explain. That’s when I realized this wasn’t just about art, it was about permission, resonance, and emotional access.
This realization has completely shifted my relationship to creating. I no longer see my work as a statement that demands attention or validation. Instead, I view it as a catalyst, an energetic offering that invites people into a deeper part of themselves, if they’re ready. That’s where its power lies. In a digital art market that often emphasizes trauma, innovation, or cultural commentary, I find myself holding space for something more subtle and soul-connected: sacred visual language that supports emotional growth and inner connection.
Staying true to this path helps me reach my own potential, and that, I believe, is the most honest contribution I can make to the world. It’s not about chasing relevance, it’s about holding a vibration that attracts those who are seeking. And with each piece, I can feel that happening. More and more people are showing up in my life, not just as viewers but as fellow travelers. I’m deeply grateful for that.
You've spoken about seeing visuals when listening to music, which connects to your synesthetic sensibilities. Beyond this auditory-visual crossover, do you experience other forms of sensory blending in your daily life, and how do these inform the architectural precision we see layered with the emotional fluidity of your compositions?
Yes, I definitely experience other forms of sensory blending beyond the auditory-visual crossover. One of the most consistent is how I feel and remember the energy of places and people. When I enter a space, I often absorb the emotional atmosphere, group dynamics, individual feelings, even subtle shifts in mood. It’s almost like emotional mapping, where I intuitively understand the unspoken connections between people.
This blending of emotional perception and spatial awareness became a kind of inner compass, and over time I noticed a pattern emerging: a balance between masculine and feminine energies. I began to sense these polarities everywhere, masculine as structure, discipline, and clean architectural lines; feminine as emotion, intuition, and organic flow.
Even a memory of a day in nature becomes layered with sensory impressions, the smell of the air, the tone of conversations, the emotional quality of the people around me. These subtle elements shape the feelings I capture, which then translate visually through symbols, shapes, and eyes. That’s where the precision and softness in my work come from, it's a reflection of this constant dance between emotional sensing and structural clarity.
Growing up surrounded by religious symbols in the Netherlands, yet later developing your own symbolic language, there's an interesting tension between inherited spirituality and personal spiritual discovery. How do the visual traditions of Dutch Christianity continue to influence your iconography, even as you explore more Eastern philosophical frameworks?
Growing up in the Netherlands, I was surrounded by the visual language of Dutch Christianity, churches, religious art, symbols, rituals. Even as a child, I could sense their importance, not just culturally but energetically. I could feel why people needed religion, not necessarily the dogma, but the ritual, the structure, the permission it gave them to connect with something greater. I recognized that prayer, for example, was never truly about asking something from outside yourself, but about entering a vibration of gratitude, of connection.
As I grew older and explored other traditions, especially Eastern philosophies, I started noticing a beautiful pattern: the essence behind all of them is often the same. Different cultures created different symbolic languages, but many of the core ideas overlap. Gratitude, surrender, balance, transformation, these are found in almost every tradition.
This realization deeply influenced the symbolic language I’ve developed in my own art. I don't see it as belonging to one faith or philosophy. It’s a sacred visual language that reflects the shared human search for meaning, growth, and alignment. Whether I enter a church, mosque, or temple, I often feel the same energy: reverence, peace, a kind of sacred presence. That’s what I try to capture in my work, a space where people from any background can connect to something deeper, beyond words or labels. To connect humans, and not to divide them.
You've described your work as finding balance between your father's architectural precision and your mother's emotional painterly expression. In "Becik ketitik, olo ketara," how do you see this duality manifesting, particularly in a piece that engages with Hindu cosmology where such energetic balance is fundamental?
In my work, I’ve often reflected on the balance between my father’s architectural precision and my mother’s emotional, painterly expression. This duality, the interplay between structure and fluidity, discipline and feeling,has deeply shaped how I approach creating.
In “Becik ketitik, olo ketara,” which draws from Hindu cosmology, this balance emerges through the lens of dual forces that exist not in opposition, but in dynamic relationship. Hindu philosophy often expresses this through the interplay of Shiva and Shakti, Shiva as consciousness and form (a more masculine principle), and Shakti as energy and movement (a more feminine principle). Their union is what gives rise to creation and balance in the universe.
Growing up, I saw this same balance lived out through my parents, how they complemented each other through their contrasting yet harmonious ways of seeing the world. Over time, I came to understand that these polarities are not just human traits, but fundamental energies that shape nature, relationships, and the cosmos itself.
In the piece, this duality is visually represented by the merging of straight, architectural lines with organic, flowing shapes. This also mirrors the symbolic tension found in the Balinese dance of Barong and Rangda. While that dance specifically portrays the battle between light (Barong) and darkness (Rangda), it also reflects a larger principle of dualism found in many spiritual traditions: that harmony requires both forces to be acknowledged and held in balance.
Through “Becik ketitik, olo ketara,” I aim to express this continuous dialogue of balance,between precision and emotion, structure and flow, light and shadow, that is both deeply personal and universally resonant within Hindu cosmology and beyond.
Your creative process seems almost ritualistic; from hand-drawing to digital layering to final animation. In an age where AI can generate imagery instantly, what draws you to maintain this slower, more meditative approach? Is there something sacred in the time investment itself?
My interest lies in the process. Building something from scratch, by hand, digitally, through animation, is a ritual. It’s physical, intuitive, and deeply personal. The time, energy, and attention I invest become part of the work. That presence, that lived experience, is where the meaning lives.
AI is a powerful tool, and I’m not against it. It can strengthen ideas, refine concepts, and offer unexpected perspectives, when used with intention. But in my practice, I don’t start there. Beginning with AI can skip the very part of creation that connects me to myself. That slow, uncertain, hands-on process is what makes the work feel alive.
You can make meaningful art with AI, but the way you use it matters. For me, it’s not about perfection or polish, or putting out a random mood, it’s about honesty. And that honesty only comes when I’m fully present, responding to the moment, not recycling the past with a specific input. AI can support that. But it can’t replace it.
The title "Becik ketitik, olo ketara" is Javanese, meaning "good deeds will be evident, bad deeds will be revealed." Yet your experience was specifically in Bali. What drew you to this particular phrase from neighboring Java, and how does it relate to what you observed about karma and consequence during your time in Bali?
It was actually a simple mistake. I was already back in the Netherlands and couldn’t find the precise translation of the phrase in Dutch. But the Javanese saying struck a deeper emotional chord with me, it felt more specific, more true to the experience I had lived. So I decided to use it, simply because it felt right.
While in Bali, I spent a lot of time observing people, both locals and tourists. I witnessed moments of deep respect and harmony, but also moments of chaos, ignorance, and even exploitation. I found myself involved in unexpected situations, sometimes dramatic, that reflected larger energetic shifts. But I’ve come to understand, through experience and through observing Balinese philosophy, that everything eventually returns to balance.
Many Balinese people say that Bali has its own spirit, its own consciousness. If your energy is not in harmony with the island, it will create friction. Things will go wrong. The island will test you, or even reject you. But if you're meant to be there, if your intention is pure and your presence respectful, Bali will open itself to you in profound and beautiful ways.
So for me, the phrase I chose wasn’t just about language, it was about the emotional and spiritual truth it carried. It reflected a deeper process I was going through. One that mirrors the Balinese view that nothing goes unnoticed by the universe, and that every cause carries its effect, in time.
You've placed Rangda, the demon queen, at the apex of your composition. Traditionally she represents necessary destruction and chaos. Given your background in digital spaces where disruption is often celebrated, how do you see Rangda's role differently than Western notions of creative destruction? What did Bali teach you about the necessity of darkness?
In the West, especially in digital and tech spaces, "creative destruction" is often framed as disruption for the sake of innovation, fast, relentless, and external. But in Bali, destruction has a more sacred, internal function. It’s not just about tearing something down, it’s about purifying, resetting, returning to harmony. The Balinese view sees chaos as part of a cycle, not a break from it. Darkness isn’t an error in the system, it is the system. It’s what pushes you into deeper awareness, change, and eventually, balance.
During my time in Bali, I came to understand that even what we call "low vibrations" have purpose. They stir things up. They force you to confront what’s unresolved. And like Rangda, they can appear terrifying, but they’re really offering you a path to clarity. This is why I placed her at the apex of the composition. Not as a villain, but as a catalyst. A necessary force that, when respected, brings everything else into alignment.
The sacred banyan at your composition's heart, with its complex root system and ability to become a forest unto itself, seems to mirror how digital communities form and spread. Was this connection conscious, and do you see parallels between how the Balinese relate to this tree and how we might relate to blockchain technology or digital interconnectedness?
Not at all, actually. This represents the growing stability that emerges no matter how big or complex you become as a person. There is always a way to find a supportive root for it.
You mentioned being surprised that crypto culture and ancient tradition coexisted so naturally in Bali. Many places struggle with this tension between preservation and innovation. What specifically did you observe about how the Balinese navigate this balance, and how might other creative communities learn from their approach?
From what I observed, the Balinese people are deeply connected to their traditions. As I mentioned earlier, they hold a strong belief in the importance of balance, between light and dark, material and spiritual, and in the idea that everything happens for a reason. Rather than resisting change, there’s a cultural mindset of acceptance: welcoming what comes, sharing space, and trusting that the island and the gods will take care of the rest.
This approach creates a surprisingly fluid coexistence between ancient rituals and modern innovation. For example, traditional ceremonies and offerings happen daily, even in busy tourist or tech-heavy areas. Temples stand next to coworking spaces. You'll see locals in traditional attire walking past digital nomads with laptops. And somehow, it doesn't feel forced.
Economically, this openness has been a strength. Balinese culture attracts global interest, and their ability to integrate craft and ritual with digital tools has led to new creative possibilities, like NFTs based on traditional art, virtual temples, or immersive storytelling that bridges the sacred and the digital.
Of course, there are practical tensions too. In areas like traffic and infrastructure, this go-with-the-flow philosophy doesn't always scale well. But from a creative and cultural perspective, the lesson is powerful: when your roots are strong, you can grow in many directions. Other creative communities could learn from this balance, honoring local identity while remaining open to the future, not by abandoning tradition, but by letting it evolve naturally alongside innovation.
The layered rooftops representing Meru levels - different layers of the universe - seem to echo your digital practice of building compositions in layers. Is this cosmological layering something you consciously connected to your technical process, and how might this Hindu understanding of universal structure influence how you approach future digital works?
It’s actually quite similar to how religious buildings in general are constructed, and also to the chakra system within the human body. This idea gave me a different perspective on structure and inspired me deeply. I began using the visual language of layering in a more precise and intentional way. It felt like receiving extra pages from the same book, suddenly, there was more to understand, more to explore within the same framework.
This release uniquely bridges digital and physical through both NFT and metal print; given your process of moving from hand-drawn sketches to digital compositions, how do you see these two forms of the same work existing in dialogue with each other? Does the physical print reveal something about the digital work that the screen cannot, or vice versa?
When I sketch on paper first, I’m capturing the soul and cultural essence of the piece. It’s a very intuitive, grounded process. Then, when I move into the digital phase, I focus on adding precise color, depth, and composition to make the work speak more clearly. The artwork works beautifully on a 4K or 8K screen, especially since screens emit light, there’s a vibrancy and intensity that can’t be denied.
However, screens also have their limitations. Many displays don’t fully capture the texture or physical presence of the work due to resolution or lighting conditions. Screen light can often be harsh or distracting, and it doesn’t always feel integrated with the physical space around it.
That’s why I wanted to also create a physical version, specifically on metal. I want people to feel the presence, the texture, and the warmth that comes from natural materials. Wood and metal reflect the feeling I had in Bali much more authentically, they’re rooted in craft, tradition, and physical space. Metal prints in particular offer precision, depth, and a certain weight. Because they have a matte finish rather than emitting light like a screen, they respond to the lighting in the room and become part of the environment rather than competing with it. This makes the piece feel more alive, more integrated, almost like it belongs to the space.
12. Bali clearly marked a pivotal moment of healing and perspective shift for you. As you continue to process and integrate this experience, where do you see your work heading next? Are there other places, cultures, or inner territories calling to you that might inform future creations?
After Bali, I experienced what felt like another ego death. I came to understand what true balance really is, not just as a concept, but as something lived. I realized that sometimes life requires you to step into the unknown without a map, to take action without full clarity, and trust that the experience itself will teach you what you need to know. Even when you're confronted by discomfort or challenge, there’s always a lesson there, something that helps you grow and respond differently next time.
That shift made me more confident and less afraid to live fully and feel deeply. It helped dissolve feelings of resentment and victimhood because I began taking full responsibility for my path. I also came to understand, on a psychological level, how people often project their own fears onto others. This taught me to listen, but also to discern, asking myself whether someone's words are a warning or an invitation to trust myself even more. And the future always reveals which it was.
This clarity around balance, discipline, and taking bold, intuitive steps is now deeply embedded in both my life and my art. I feel more grounded in my beliefs, and as a result, more peaceful in my creative process. I sense that future works will carry more distilled philosophies, clearer, more focused, with less emotional heaviness.
What’s calling me next is structure, being more present and active in the physical world, especially in Europe. I want to move through spaces, collaborate with aligned people, and build from a place of clarity and connection. While Bali gave me deep internal healing, I feel the next phase will be about integrating that insight into collective spaces, through community, and grounded creative action.
