The Umbrella Practice: Why Creativity Doesn’t Need One Box
Neuk Member Dominika Jackowska on how finding your niche can be overrated.
Back when I was at university, someone said that to succeed, you should find your style, your niche, and just go for it. The idea was that if you have a recognisable style or look, people will know you for it
I tried to do that, but I have to be honest, I struggled with it. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been interested in so many different things, and it was difficult for me to stick to just one. I find many different things fascinating.
I started with animation, first traditional and then digital. At some point early on, I came across the work of MUTO, the Big Bang Big Boom animation by street artist Blu. He created animation on a huge scale using murals. It was incredibly impressive and it always stayed with me.
Later I discovered VJ Suave, a group from Brazil that creates “guerrilla animation” projections from a cargo bike. I loved the idea of making animation on a large scale and bringing it into public spaces. It felt very different from what I had been doing before.
These artists and creatives I came across really shaped my idea of what is possible.
The more you discover and the more you learn, the more your understanding of what is possible expands. I’ve always liked a challenge and trying new things. Somewhere along the way I realised I wanted to make work that brings animation into physical spaces, work that I’m excited about.
I started with animation, but over the years my practice has expanded into physical work, interactive projects, projection mapping, theatre, metalwork, and interactive installations. Animation is still at the centre of it all, but it has found ways to exist beyond the screen.
I sometimes think about creativity less as a straight path and more as a network of routes. The core ideas remain the same, but the medium changes depending on what the idea needs. Sometimes a story works best as a film. Sometimes it needs light, movement, physical space, or interaction with people.
Curiosity kept leading me into new territories.
And now I don’t mind that I don’t have one specific style. Instead, I think of my creative practice as an umbrella for exploration.
I’ve made peace with the fact that this is how my brain works. I no longer fight it, I embrace it. And this way of thinking has led me to many interesting projects and collaborations.
If you are interested in something new, go for it. You might not know yet how it will fit into your practice. Maybe not in the next month, or even the next year. But the things you learn won’t disappear. At some point they might become useful in a future project or idea.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is how important play is in creative practice.
Being a freelancer means there are many things aside from the fun, creative making that you have to deal with, such as applications, emails, planning, etc. All of those things are necessary, but they can take up a lot of your time and mental space.
That’s why it’s important to carve out time for your own making, sometimes with no purpose at all. It doesn’t have to be a huge block of time. Even 15 or 30 minutes once in a while can make a difference.
I run a lot of creative workshops, and something I’ve realised is how nice it is to attend a workshop run by someone else. Recently, I went to a sashiko stitching workshop. It was a wonderful experience to learn something new while simply being a participant rather than the person organising everything.
That’s why workshops and experimental spaces are so valuable. They allow you to make something without pressure or expectation. No brief, no deliverables, no outcome that needs to justify itself.
Just curiosity.
Those moments often reconnect me to the original joy of making.
Something I’ve noticed is that ideas rarely appear fully formed. Often they start as small experiments.
You try something out of curiosity, maybe on a very small scale, without knowing exactly what it will become.
Then months or even years later, the idea comes back. Suddenly there is an opportunity, a project, or a collaboration where that experiment finds its place and grows into something much bigger.
Nothing you learn or try is wasted. Even the smallest experiment can become part of something larger in the future.
Being a freelance creative also means living with a constant flow of tasks that exist outside the creative process.
There are applications to write, emails to send, people to contact, funding forms to complete, and budgets to plan. Projects vary between short-term and long-term commitments.
One of the hardest parts can be the feeling of never finishing your to-do list. It’s very easy to underestimate how long things take, and suddenly the day disappears into admin tasks.
Rejection is also part of the process. Applications get declined and ideas don’t always find support. Over time you develop a thicker skin and learn to keep going.
There are also moments where you’re not entirely sure what the next step is. You might not know exactly where things are heading, but you know the direction will still be creative.
Sometimes that uncertainty is part of the journey.
We are also surrounded by constant messages about productivity.
Online platforms often push the idea that we should always be improving, producing more, monetising our work, and optimising every aspect of our lives. On some level that advice can be useful, but seeing it every day can start to distort reality.
Creativity doesn’t always work on that kind of schedule.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is unplug for a while. Step away from the algorithm. Make something without documenting it or sharing it immediately.
Over the years I’ve also learned the importance of being forgiving towards yourself.
Creative life is not constant productivity. There are periods of intense making and periods that feel quieter. Times where ideas flow easily and times where everything feels slower.
We are not machines.
I’ve started thinking about creativity more like nature. A plant grows upwards, but it also grows downwards, building roots beneath the surface.
Those roots are not always visible, but they are important. In creative work, they might be learning, experimenting, observing, or simply giving ideas time to develop.
Creativity also moves through seasons. There are times of growth, when ideas flourish, and quieter periods that feel more like hibernation. Those slower moments can feel unproductive, but they are part of the process.
Just like in nature, not everything is meant to be in bloom all the time.
Often when we look at other artists or creators, we see the flower.
The finished film.
The installation.
The exhibition.
The performance.
What we don’t see are the roots beneath it, the years of learning, failed attempts, workshops, experiments, and quiet moments of doubt.
Creative work grows in both directions: upwards and downwards.
Both are necessary.
Someone once asked a simple question: Why do we make films?
There are many answers.
To tell stories.
To imagine new worlds.
To communicate something personal.
To escape reality for a moment.
All of those reasons are valid.
For me, a lot of my work is about creating moments of pause. Our brains wander constantly throughout the day, thinking about the past or the future. Through installations, light, visuals, and sensory experiences, I often try to bring people back into the present moment.
Even if only briefly.
Earlier in my career, I sometimes thought creative work had to make a huge impact to matter.
Now I’m not so sure.
If someone experiences something new through a piece of work, if a workshop sparks a new idea for someone, or if even one person walks away seeing the world a little differently, that already feels meaningful.
Impact doesn’t always have to be massive to matter.
Art and music also have a powerful way of bringing people together.
They create shared spaces, a bit like modern town squares. Places where people gather, experience something collectively, and connect through emotion or curiosity.
Film festivals are a great example of this. Watching short films from different parts of the world can widen your perspective without travelling anywhere. You see glimpses of other cultures, ideas, and ways of storytelling.
Those experiences remind you how many different voices exist.
Looking back, working across different disciplines was never really a strategy. It simply came from following my curiosity and allowing ideas to move between different forms.
Animation still sits at the centre of my practice, but it continues to evolve through new materials, technologies, and collaborations.
There will probably always be new skills to learn, new ideas to explore, and new routes that lead back to the same creative core.
And maybe that’s the point.
Creativity doesn’t need to fit into one box. Sometimes it grows best when we allow it to move freely between many.