Mark Evans Studio

I recently found myself in a long, winding conversation about artificial intelligence and the quiet fear that seems to follow it everywhere. Not the loud, cinematic kind of fear, but something subtler - a shared uncertainty about what comes next. The truth is, no one really knows how much of an impact AI will have on our world. We can make predictions, build models, and speculate endlessly, but the reality is that we are stepping into something fundamentally unpredictable. What struck me most was how this uncertainty lands hardest on young people. Students are choosing degrees, investing time, money, and identity into specific fields, only to face the possibility that those roles may not exist in the same way - or at all - by the time they graduate. Entire career paths could shift or disappear. Jobs that once required years of training might be performed faster, cheaper, and more efficiently by machines. It raises a difficult question: what does it mean to prepare for a future that ref...

  I was listening to Desert Island Discs recently and heard an interview with Oscar winner Jessie Buckley. She spoke openly about her struggles as a teenager - how deeply she felt everything, and how hard it was to contain that constant urge for big emotional expression. It made me reflect on something many actors and artists experience: we’re often required to feel more intensely than the average person. Of course, that doesn’t make those feelings any easier. In fact, being a sensitive artist can feel overwhelming - big, heavy, and, at times, inconvenient. There are moments when it might seem easier not to feel so much at all. And yet, our work gives those feelings purpose. Ours is one of the only professions where life’s challenges - and everything we learn from them - can be transformed into something meaningful. A bank teller doesn’t need to channel grief to do their job. An actor does. When a character is grieving, we are called upon to access something real, something lived. ...