Society loves a label. It likes to sort people into tidy little boxes, pretending life is neat, ordered, and unified. In truth, labels displace, disorientate, and isolate.
I’m a second-generation immigrant, born and bred in London. My mum is Kenyan, my Dad Punjabi – both carried British passports when they came to the UK.
I grew up in a white community. My friends were white. My teachers were white. Our neighbours were white. I never felt any different than them. We all came from similar socio-economic backgrounds, and our identities were simply our names. I belonged.
Religion was part of my world, but never my anchor. I was born Sikh, yet never followed any faith in the traditional sense. That separated me – from my extended family, from my Hindu in-laws. I still join in: I celebrate festivals, respect traditions, and take part when I’m needed. But my belief lies in something broader: faith, not religion; energy, not God; an invisible thread that connects us all.
Now I live in Edinburgh with my Nepalese husband (who was born into an Indian family) and our two Scottish sons. Our home is a tapestry of languages, foods, and rituals (including Mexico’s Day of the Dead); a mix that sometimes clashes but mostly coexists. As a child, I would never have noticed this. Back then, it all felt simple.
But lately, I’ve been asking myself questions. Getting louder as I age and deeper the more I dive into my own artwork: Who am I? Where do I fit?
That idealised notion of sameness has faded. When I entered the design industry, it became clear that I wasn’t the same as everyone else. I hadn’t gone to university. I wasn’t polished enough for big corporate roles, so I gravitated towards small businesses and community work instead.
Then came children. Yet another layer of challenge, another sense of otherness.
My age began to matter too. I was often too young for some creative classes, yet too old to enter my work into others.
Now, my own artwork has become the catalyst for all this unravelling. The questions keep coming: What’s my niche?
Recently, I tried to get my homage portrait of Andy Warhol printed on a tote bag, but due to copyright issues, the printers apologetically declined. Most of my work so far has celebrated other artists, weaving their influence into my own. But that experience made me realise it’s time to create from the heart. My art should be a reflection of me.
But who am I?
I’m so many things.
Even in creative terms, I can’t pin myself down. Apart from Salvador Dalí, there isn’t one artist I can claim as my singular inspiration. I love the simplicity of Mondrian, yet I’m drawn to the chaos of Pollock. I adore the darkness of skulls and memento mori, yet I’m equally energised by the playfulness of Pop Art. I feel the quiet stillness of Vermeer as deeply as the radiating energy of Rothko or the hypnotic movement of Riley.
The more I read and learn about art and its histories, the more layered and contradictory I become. I resist a single definition. And I know this is something so many creatives struggle with, to be open to the world, to see beyond difference, yet still yearn for a place to belong.
I’m not my younger self anymore. So how do I express that in my work?
I don’t want to identify with the labels society has built to make sense of difference.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe my identity isn’t meant to fit into a box. Maybe it’s meant to be a collage. Torn edges, overlapping textures, nothing perfectly aligned, and nothing left behind. My heritage, my family, my beliefs, the things I love, they’re all part of me, constantly shifting, reshaping, and finding new form in every piece I create.
And when it’s done, I’ll sign it simply: Ranjit Sihat.
That’s my constant. My anchor. My name. And in that simple act, I find where I belong.