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“Even though they didn’t work for me, I’m very much in favor of psychedelics being used to treat things like depression, anxiety, and migraines. I think they hold incredible potential for healing. Personally, though, I’ve found other ways to reach higher planes – through Transcendental Meditation, going back to church, and, most importantly, through making art.”

– Henry Hudson

 

I’m beyond excited to kick off 2025 with the first cover story featuring the incredible work of Henry Hudson. I’ve had this interview for a while, waiting for the perfect moment to release it – and the start of a new year feels like just the right time.

 

Henry Hudson

 

At Funga, a platform dedicated to exploring psychedelics, mindfulness, and wellbeing, we are continually drawn to creative minds that intertwine these themes in their work. Henry Hudson, a London-based artist whose work spans color, nature, and altered states of consciousness, is a perfect example of this. His art, a fascinating blend of meditative, dreamlike landscapes, explores nature, the mind, and the spirit in ways that mirror the interconnectedness we aim to highlight on this platform.

In this interview, I had the privilege of speaking with Henry about his artistic journey, the innovative use of Plasticine as a medium, and the deep influences behind his surreal jungle and cave paintings. We also dive into his experiences with transcendent mental states, the impact they have had on his creative process, and how his practice has evolved over time. For me, his work is a reminder of how art, consciousness, and the natural world can come together to create something truly transformative.

 

 

Can you tell me about your beginnings / journey as an artist?

My journey as an artist began quite organically, influenced in part by my father, Richard Hudson, who became a sculptor when I was 13. Interestingly, he only started sculpting at 42, after moving to Mallorca, where his girlfriend – a painter – had a studio. Being around them at that age was inspiring. I saw not only the creative process but also the practical realities of life as an artist – people visiting their studios, discussing art, and engaging in the business side of things. By 15, I was completely hooked. I realized art could be limitless and that it had the power to unleash my imagination.

After attending Ampleforth College, where the art school and theater were my creative refuges, I moved to London to study at Chelsea Art School. Following some challenges, I transferred to City & Guilds and then to Central Saint Martins, where I joined the 4D program, experimenting with video installations, set designs, and performance art, often drawing inspiration from Paul McCarthy and delving into social commentary.

It was a certainly a formative period – a bit lost, waky and kind of crazy – but I realized that there are very few people that can exist in that realm because there is no money in it.

 

Below are pieces where Henry Hudson employs an innovative technique using scagliola, a refined plaster-and-glue material popular in 17th-century Italy. Working on inverted glass surfaces, he lets chance shape the final outcome, inspired by nature from travels and walks. The resulting smooth, abstract compositions embody the meditative essence and movement of water.

 

Plaster Nature Abstract Work

 

What inspired you to use Plasticine as your primary medium instead of traditional paint, and how does it change the way you approach each piece?

When I graduated from St. Martin’s, I had barely any money – just £25 in my pocket – and needed materials for an exhibition. I loved impasto oil paint, but a single tube cost nearly my entire budget. Then, I stumbled on plasticine in the children’s section of the art store. It was cheap, oil-based, and came in vibrant colors reminiscent of Philip Guston’s palette. I experimented, heating and mixing the bars, and realized I could use it like paint. It felt unique and exciting, bridging the impasto techniques of Freud and Auerbach with something performative and eccentric, a bit like British madness.

Plasticine is incredibly physical and challenging to work with – imagine trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I layer thin sheets of black plasticine, draw outlines with a biro, and work from the background forward, mixing every color by hand. Back then, it was an insane, almost operatic endeavor, like a Fitzcarraldo-style obsession to turn a child’s material into something monumental. The aim was to make pieces so striking that, in real life, people would walk in and think, what is that? And then realize – it’s Play-Doh. That shock was what I was chasing.

The process was so demanding that I eventually needed help. I began creating master drawings and brought on assistants to refine and scale up the work. One project, an eight-panel piece, took two years of nearly full-time effort. Looking back, it was the madness and energy of youth that made it possible. If someone asked me to start from scratch with Play-Doh today, I’d probably tell them to get lost! But back then, it was just me, the material, and this burning desire to create something utterly operatic.

 

Close-Up in the Studio

 

In creating otherworldly natural scenes, are you aiming to reveal something deeper or universal about nature that we might overlook in everyday consciousness?

I made a very conscious decision with the jungle pieces to exclude insects, animals, or any living creatures. The titles are just times, split seconds in an a.m. or p.m. framework, and that was deliberate – I didn’t want to assign a narrative or context. It’s almost like, on day three, God created the plants. These scenes could just as easily be post-apocalyptic as they could be primordial. Philosophically, they explore the idea that humans don’t really have a say in nature. Man’s place in nature is a fascinating subject, but these works aim to strip that away.

It’s a bit like those old Japanese landscape paintings where there’s this massive, beautiful scene, and somewhere in the corner is a tiny human figure – a poet viewing the landscape. In my work, the viewer’s focus is entirely on the plants, the foliage, and the color. When you really look at plant life, it’s bizarre, intricate, and otherworldly. Especially when you’re creating it, paying attention to every detail of a leaf – you realize how strange and remarkable it is.

By not including a bug, a cobweb, or anything else, I’m keeping the mind from wandering to other ideas. These pieces are meant to leave you in a timeless, meditative space – a place before or beyond life as we know it. For me, they were about finding a space where I wasn’t disturbed or influenced by anything external, just surrounded by pure, overwhelming life. The jungle is a perfect metaphor for that, something poets and writers have explored endlessly. It’s also an exploration of color. People sometimes tell me the colors feel unnatural, but I think they’re wrong – nature gives us every color imaginable. Just look at underwater life. It’s all there.

These pieces reflect my mind states but are also designed to create a meditative space for the viewer, a kind of paradisiacal or dystopian dreamscape, like something out of Blake. It’s about balancing order and chaos, beauty and ugliness, and capturing the poetry in all of that. On a personal level, it was definitely a form of escapism, but I wanted the viewer to feel immersed in that same duality – a dreamlike state where they can reflect on both the wonder and the weight of nature.

 

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

 

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

 

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

Your jungle paintings remind me of works are reminiscent of Henri Rousseau. Was he an inspiration?

Rousseau was a huge inspiration for me as a child. I remember going to the National Gallery with my mum and seeing Surprised!, the painting with the tiger jumping out against that incredible flash of lightning. I was obsessed with it – I even bought the postcard and used to sit copying it while my mum was cooking. So, for me, it has this very nurturing, motherly association. But beyond that, the painting itself is just magical for a child, especially growing up in grey old England. It’s full of color, life, and drama, with that thunderbolt cutting through the clouds. It really captured my imagination back then.

Interestingly, though, what led me to create the jungle paintings wasn’t directly about Rousseau. It came after I’d done a series called The Rise and Fall of Young Sen which was based on “The Rakes Progress” by William Hogarth. At the time, I was living that chaotic Soho lifestyle – drinking, partying, the Groucho crowd, all of that. The series took three years to finish, and by the end, I was completely drained and wanted to escape from anything to do with vice or human morality. That’s when I started on the jungles.

The jungles were a form of escapism – not just from my lifestyle, but also from my East London studio. I wanted to create something rooted in nature, looking at the slight abstraction of plants and the organic chaos of it all. Rousseau probably lingers in the background of that work, but it was really about stepping into a different headspace, away from people and into this lush, imaginative world.

 

Tiger in a Tropical Storm Surprised Painting by Henri Rousseau

A Jungle Scene by Henry Hudson

Can you share a little bit about the current digital cave compositions you are working on?

The caves are really interesting because they’ve become this natural evolution from the jungles I was working on before. With the jungles, I’d compose them by sketching out rough ideas, then using Photoshop to piece together collages of different photographs, or painting directly onto the digital composition. Recently, though, I’ve been experimenting with artificial intelligence. It’s fascinating – and honestly a bit strange – because AI feels almost like a spiritual tool. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but there’s something about the way it works, the unpredictability of it, that reminds me of animism. It’s like putting a sail up and not knowing where the wind will come from, but it catches something, and suddenly you’re off.

I got really into AI about two years ago. It blew my mind – so much so that I was staying up until 4 a.m., completely immersed. It felt like an addiction, almost like being on a high, and I realized I needed balance. That’s when I started Transcendental Meditation. It helped me counterbalance the intensity of using this powerful, almost overwhelming tool.

At the same time, I went to Papua New Guinea, where I was surrounded by these beautiful, remote places with no electricity. It was such a stark contrast to coming home and diving into AI, one of the most advanced tools humanity has ever created. That duality of being in untouched nature and then working with cutting-edge technology, really got me thinking about the tools we use to create, from the ash and fire of early cave paintings to the possibilities of AI today.

Now I’m working on caves made with Plasticine. They’re like a reflection of the cave of the mind – my mind – but also a nod to the origins of humanity and our early philosophies. I’m using AI to help design these compositions, almost like it’s the modern-day equivalent of ash and fire. It’s this interesting loop, using such an advanced tool to revisit these primal, ancient spaces. So yeah, they’re like Play-Doh cave paintings, and I’m really excited about where they’re going.

Digital Cave Composition using AI

Digital Cave Composition using AI

Digital Cave Composition using AI

 

Which will end up like the artworks below …

 

Have you explored altered states of consciousness and if so, how has that impacted your work?

I’ve explored altered states, mostly through psychedelics, but my experiences have been mixed. I started with marijuana – if you count that as a psychedelic – and reacted badly to it. Then I tried acid, and it didn’t sit well with me either. I think we’re all made up of different chemicals, and our reactions can depend on so many factors – things we don’t even fully understand, like past experiences or our ability to let go. For whatever reason, it didn’t work for me, and I didn’t pursue it much further.

That said, I did try mushrooms once and had a good time, but I also did some pretty reckless things, like pouring beer all over Louis XIV silk upholstery in someone’s very grand house. I think those experiences might have been different if I’d approached them with the right intention, in a more structured or guided environment – something akin to a spiritual or ceremonial setting. Every time I tried psychedelics, it was probably the wrong place, the wrong time, and for the wrong reasons.

Even though they didn’t work for me, I’m very much in favor of psychedelics being used to treat things like depression, anxiety, and migraines. I think they hold incredible potential for healing. Personally, though, I’ve found other ways to reach higher planes through Transcendental Meditation, going back to church, and, most importantly, through making art.

Art for me is like a Zen state. It’s a space where time dissolves, and I’m completely consumed by the process. It’s similar to meditation or the flow state you get from something like gardening where your hands are directly connected to your mind, and the act itself massages that part of your brain. When I make something, it silences one part of my brain and subdues another, almost like releasing natural endorphins. Sometimes, when I feel completely out of control, I force myself to make a small painting, and I come out of it feeling like I’ve meditated for five hours. I’m really lucky to have that.

 

Jungle Scenes in the Studio

 

If you could choose to exist as a plant, which one would you choose?

I’ve got this obsession with single oak trees standing alone in the middle of fields. There’s this hill near where my family lives called Bredon Hill. It’s this mound that rises out of an otherwise rolling but relatively flat landscape. On the side of this hill, in the middle of a farmed field, there’s this solitary oak tree. I go up there often, and I just love it. I can’t even fully explain why—it’s melancholic, there’s something sad about it, but I love it.

It reminds me a bit of something they have in China. You know, when a government wants to build a motorway through an urban area, there’s always that one person who refuses to sell their house. They end up building the motorway around it, and the house just stands there, defiant. There’s even a name for it. I feel like that oak tree is the same, it’s resilient. It’s survived, and it’s like, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

I pity it in a way, because it’s so isolated, but at the same time, I admire its strength. It’s still standing, still offering shade or a bit of refuge to a bird flying by. It’s visually beautiful and kind of metaphorical in a way. So yeah, if I could exist as a plant, I think I’d choose to be that oak tree.

 

Bredon Hill OAK TREE

 

A. E Housman

XXI: Bredon Hill

 

In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.

Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.

The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
‘Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.

And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
‘Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.

But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.

They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.

The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
‘Come all to church, good people,’ –
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.

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