Lately I’ve been reflecting a lot on my artistic process. One recurring theme is the question: how do I create just for myself? Not for the models. Not for the algorithm. Not for likes or sales. But for the inner child who wants to play – to have fun.

I’ve noticed that working with color brings me joy. I had neglected it recently, mostly because it takes time – and the feed is always waiting, as are my models. But joy doesn’t follow deadlines.

I’ve also found a kind of liberation in drawing explicit images. Not to provoke, but to dare. To break through inner boundaries and soften old restraints.

So this morning, instead of doing what was expected – finishing commissions, prepping the next post – I chose joy. I chose color. I followed the instinct to merge sensuality and art, to let them become one. This bold reference by Hannah inspired me to do it, to go for it and dive in.

This drawing isn’t for Instagram. It’s not for ego or approval. It’s just me, wanting to feel again – with no filter.

See the finished piece titled “Soul Baring”

The post No Filter appeared first on Lavi Art.

Every once in a while, people ask me: How do you not get your posts flagged?
To outsiders, it seems like I get away with things they can’t – I was posting realistic revealing figure drawings that sometimes “looked like a photo.”
But the truth is: I’ve had stories and posts removed in the past year.
Every time it happened, my heart sank.
Sometimes they were restored, and I slowly regained my sanity. But when they weren’t – I started hearing that voice in my head: “Watch out. What you thought you could get away with was actually removed. You don’t want another post taken down, do you? You don’t want to start blurring and censoring your drawings.”

So I began walking a thin line. Planning posts ahead. Trying to guess what might be too provocative for IG – for the algorithm, for the audience, for an occasional human moderator.
I received incredible, inspiring references from my muse and other models – but some felt too raw, too explicit, too suggestive. And I kept asking myself: If I can’t share it on IG, is it even worth drawing?

So I decided to try Reddit. I opened an account (with a slightly weird username – I accidentally misspelled embodiedart so now it’s emobodiedart) and started uploading some older popular work.
To my surprise, it did well – especially for a fresh account with no followers.
But that wasn’t even the point.

My real motivation was to finally post the drawings I wanted to make, without second-guessing them.
Last Sunday, instead of doing my regular IG post, I uploaded my first Reddit-only explicit drawing.
And the response was validating – not just because of the upvotes or the comments, but because it reminded me: There are spaces for this kind of work, where it doesn’t have to apologize for itself.

So for now, my more daring drawings will live over there.
It doesn’t mean I’m abandoning IG – just that I’m no longer letting it set the rules for what I make, or how I make it. I needed a place that feels a little freer. A little wilder.

My reddit page: https://www.reddit.com/user/emobodiedart

If you don’t have a reddit account, here’s the direct link to the drawing

The post Why I Took My More Daring Drawings Off Instagram appeared first on Lavi Art.

When I eventually came back to it – I let myself finish it without pressure. It didn’t get much attention on my main Instagram page when I shared it in a story, but last week I posted it in an Israeli Facebook art group and was surprised by the response. A few shares, 50 comments, and more than 600 people liked it. It reminded me that even when things take time – or especially when they take time – something good comes out of it.

It’s not the first time it has happened but this drawing reminded me to trust that. To not give up just because something feels like a dead end for a while. Sometimes art just needs to breathe before it finds its form.

The post “You can’t rush art.” appeared first on Lavi Art.

Klimt challanged the old distinction between the “pure” nude and the “dangerous” body. He saw the hypocrisy in pretending that some nudes were “high” and others “low,” depending on the context or the myth behind them.
His approach resonated with me – maybe because, as a young religious person, even the most classical nudes were never neutral. They were provocative, no matter how noble the context of the nudity was.

In 2023, I made a small but profound shift. I moved away from the world of professional models — where things was more controlled and distant — and toward amateur models: real people, often moms, who modeled casually, using their phones at their homes, sometimes seductively.
The poses weren’t just aesthetic exercises anymore – they carried undertones of desire, invitation, even personal risk.

One reference photo could tell two entirely different stories depending on the energy behind it.
A professional might strike a pose, but it would be “clean” — a technical challenge for the artist.
But when an amateur mom would strike that same pose, it isn’t always “clean.” It could be personal, charged, more than just an image to draw – a communication, a provocation.

At first, I hid some of those new drawings of the amateur models. I felt ashamed. It felt like I was doing something wrong — stepping outside the respectable definition of “art.”
But that’s precisely where the real life energy was.

Drawing within the “safe zone” might protect one’s reputation.
But drawing beyond it touches something deeper — the messy, unfiltered truth of desire, of connection, of vulnerability.
And maybe that’s where the art really begins.

The post Drawing Beyond the Safe Zone appeared first on Lavi Art.

But for the model, especially when working from a photo, it can be very different.
One quick snapshot on her end.
A fleeting moment she forgot.
While on your end, it became a long process.
A place where emotions, hopes, and memories resurfaced and left their mark on the paper.

I think that’s a built in mechanism – a little sadness that artists carry.
We care so deeply, but sometimes – they were never really there with us.
Not because they didn’t care, but because the act of drawing is simply more immersive, more demanding, more… alive.

That’s how I felt many times drawing my muses from photos.
However I realize now it was different with my first muse – Dominique.
Dominique was an Australian model who got stuck in the Netherlands during Covid.
Me and a selected group of artists joined many of her live modeling sessions on Zoom.
There were no screenshots, no reference photos – just us, drawing her live as she held the pose while her music was playing softly in the background.
We knew we only had the present moment.
We learned to cherish it, not to hoard it.

Eventually, I went back to working from photos – I needed more time to create work I could stand behind. But I guess it doesn’t really matter if the models stood there the whole time it took to finish the artwork or not. The art isn’t about them. it’s about the artists – what we see, what it evokes in us. Whether the model sends photos or models distantly via Zoom – it’s not really a collaboration – at least, not in the way we often imagine. No more than nature collaborates with a landscape artist.

The post On Drawing and Caring appeared first on Lavi Art.

My weekends were consumed by pastel dust and long, intense drawing sessions. I skipped family movie nights and conquered the big sheets of paper with magical color combinations I discovered. My drawings got noticed. But more than that, I felt in it – exchanging WIPs with Vilidian, discussing which photos might come next, intrigued by how others interpreted the same pose.

Near the end, she had two contenders for the final image: one crouched on a wooden deck, the other stretched diagonally across a staircase. I loved the stairs – the photo was elegant, open, bold. But walking to our local coffee shop one afternoon, I just knew: “She’s not going to pick the stairs.”

And she didn’t. That one went to Patreon a few months later, after I’d already stepped away.

But something else happened. I had shared a drawing-in-progress in a story – to celebrate her birthday – and posted the finished version on mine. She noticed, asked if the timing was intentional. Then, as a gift, she offered to send me a reference. She gave me a choice between two photos she remembered I liked – I picked the stairs.

So this one didn’t close the FRM project for her. But it did happen to be my last drawing of her – an ending to a long and fruitful collaboration.

The post “She’s not going to pick the stairs.” appeared first on Lavi Art.

And I still believe in that.
Too often, muses get forgotten while the artist receives all the glory.

But over time I’ve started to see the cost of that habit – how sometimes, in trying to elevate someone else, I ended up shrinking myself. I convinced myself that the muse was the story, and that the drawing only mattered because of her.

That kind of thinking makes it harder to listen to my own needs. It entangles the art with the person too tightly. And it creates a loop where I’m not even sure if I’m making the work for myself or as some kind of tribute to the models.

In truth, the model is part of the story. But so am I.
Her courage might inspire a drawing – but it’s my courage to draw something daring and post it.
Her openness might invite me to open up too – but I’m still the one who translates my inner world into art.

I have to keep reminding myself to reclaim that part.
Not in defiance of the muse – but in honor of myself.

The post Giving Credit Without Losing Yourself appeared first on Lavi Art.

Sometimes, especially with a quick sketch, sharing right away does amplify that joy. It’s light, playful, and there’s no real risk (aside from Instagram censorship, of course).
But when a piece goes deeper – when it feels like the start of something more personal or revealing -sharing too soon can flatten it.
Like opening the oven before the bread is ready.

I’ve noticed that those premature shares give a hit of dopamine—but often at a cost:

• The motivation disappears
• The work stops evolving
• The sacred moment becomes content

It’s not always easy to tell when it is the right moment to share. Art isn’t baking. There’s no timer to say, “Okay, now it’s safe to open the door.”
Am I withholding something meaningful from my audience and my model?
Am I denying myself a needed boost of confidence?
Or am I protecting something that’s still in the delicate stage of becoming?

So lately, even at the expense of staying “active” or “relevant,” I’ve started keeping more of the process to myself.
I miss some of those dopamine highs – but now there are less “abandoned children” along the way – I’m able to finish most of what I start. And when I do share, it feels truer. More whole.

The post Don’t Open the Oven Too Soon appeared first on Lavi Art.

There’s something exhausting about sharing art in a space that feels both like a home and a minefield. Some of you know what I’m talking about – Instagram – the most popular social network among artists, curators, models and art appreciators.

Most of the time, I’m grateful. Grateful that my drawings – sensual, realistic, often intimate – can exist there. That people respond. That my work have a window into the world – that my work reaches many people. I know how many artists are shadowed, silenced, or simply invisible. So I don’t take it for granted.

But underneath that gratitude, there’s always tension. Will this post be flagged? Will my account health take another invisible hit? To those of you who don’t know what account health is – it’s a ranking we don’t see that’s operating in the background. Some actions make your account be more healthy – posting and sharing stories that are engaging, at regular times – while other actions will put you in harm’s way – irregular spikes in commenting and giving likes, posting the same content over and over again or even being sent explicit content by others.

Most of my removed posts were eventually restored. But it doesn’t feel like a clean slate. The system remembers. Even when it’s wrong, it remembers.

And the part that stings the most is how unpredictable it all is. It’s not about rule-breaking. It’s about guessing games with algorithms, strange patterns of engagement, and trying to post art that feels true -without inviting a quiet punishment I’ll only feel days later, in lower reach or lost momentum.

But I’m still on Instagram. I still post. Because despite it all, this is still where people find my work. And because I believe it matters that this kind of art – honest, grounded, human – still has a place in the world.

The post Between Gratitude and Uncertainty appeared first on Lavi Art.

The drawing was based on a reference from someone I didn’t know personally. She mentioned it was taken during her “young and wild” days — before motherhood, before her body changed. That sentence stayed with me. It helped me imagine what it felt like to be her in that moment.

When I draw, I try not to separate the aesthetic from the emotional. Sometimes the image is sensual, sometimes contemplative, sometimes both. To me, that’s what figure drawing is about — not just observing bodies, but inhabiting them for a moment. That includes desire, tension, empathy, pleasure, and sometimes, yes, arousal.

I don’t think those things should be censored out of art. They’re part of being human.
Drawing like this is my way of being honest about it.

The post was eventually taken down, which left me wondering whether that very honesty made some people uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just the subject I chose.

The post Young and Wild appeared first on Lavi Art.

When I look back at those pieces now, I can’t help but wonder: was that the truest art I’ve ever made? It felt like everything was on the line.

These days, I work differently. I give drawings time to sit. I step away, come back later, let them breathe a little. I try to stay connected to what I actually want – not just what I think people will respond to. But even now, the question creeps in: is this really me? Or just a more polished version of who I used to be?

I don’t have a clean answer. What I’m learning, though, is that maybe both versions belong. The raw, urgent work that came from being cracked open. And the quieter pieces I make now, from a place of steadier self-trust.

If you’ve ever felt this split – like your “best” work came from somewhere you’re not sure you can or even want to return to – you’re not alone. I think a lot of us carry that tension.

But maybe we don’t have to choose.

The post Clarity, vulnerability, and the kind of art that lives on appeared first on Lavi Art.

Someone once told her she had the “thousand yard stare” in the reference photo. She didn’t see it in herself, and neither did I, at first. But I realize now I was drawn to it — maybe because it mirrored something in me I hadn’t fully processed. Something unresolved. We never intended it, but trauma has a way of slipping into a face.

I painted it in the mornings, when I had the most energy. I remember carefully maintaining a stay-wet palette, so the skin tones could stay alive across days. It was a way of staying close to the work — and maybe to her too.

Looking back, I’m not sure if this was a portrait of her, or of what she stirred in me.

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