Oscar Ukonu’s Pen Outruns Your Algorithm
Back when Williamsburg still had rust and bad decisions in its DNA, before it got Botoxed into a boutique-sized version of Fifth Avenue, I used to pass a busker every morning at the Bedford L. The man was a legend. A one-man Beatles tribute act, running the same four-song setlist on loop like he’d struck a licensing deal with Groundhog Day. Same booming voice. Same grin like he’d just discovered joy for the first time. Years later, my wife told me that before she and I crossed paths, she once came home to her Clinton Hill apartment and heard those same songs floating up through the floorboards. Turns out the busker had sublet the apartment below. No crowd. No tips. Just him, serenading the night like John Lennon’s ghost was judging him. From the wardrobe.
Which brings us, naturally, to Oscar Ukonu, the man with the ballpoint pen and the patience of a holy monk with a grudge. He’s not here for reinvention. He’s here for mastery. While the world panic-pivots to AI doodles and “disruptive” digital chaos, Oscar just picks up a Bic, locks in, and crosshatches his way to visual transcendence. It’s like someone dared him to outdraw reality and he said, “Cool. Hold my pen cap.” Every portrait is a sermon in ink. You don’t look at them, you’re judged by them.
Born in Nigeria, trained in architecture, and possibly channeling some interdimensional ink deity, Oscar Ukonu draws like reality is a rough draft he’s here to improve. His portraits aren’t just hyperreal, they’re hyper charged, humming with Afrofuturism, ancestral echoes, and the kind of mythic clarity that makes you feel seen in ways you weren’t ready for. And while the rest of the world is throwing filters at their eyeballs, Oscar’s still out here seducing paper with a single Bic pen like it’s a lifelong lover he refuses to ghost. Same ink. Same vibe. Same mind-melting devotion to detail that makes photocopiers feel inadequate.
So yeah, Oscar is the ballpoint busker of the art world. Except his four-song setlist is truth, patience, beauty, and don’t f**k this up. And every time he hits the page, it’s like watching someone channel divinity through an office supply. Who needs reinvention when you’ve already hacked the matrix with a biro?
I. THE 200-HOUR PORTRAIT CLUB
What possesses a person to spend six weeks on one drawing with a ballpoint pen? Are you secretly a Zen master of patience, or do you have moments when you want to hurl the pen across the room?
Well, I don’t sit down and think, I’m going to spend 200 hours on any particular work. Each piece demands what it demands. It becomes less of a test of endurance and more of a ritual of presence. Of course there are moments when the ink floods or a stroke strays farther than I want it to. But it’s the trust I have in the process - built through repetition - that wins the day. The sanity comes from knowing even chaos can become beautiful when you stay long enough to find its rhythm.
II. BALLPOINT MONOGAMY
Have you ever been tempted to cheat on the Bic? Do brushes or iPads whisper to you at night?
Like most artists, I dabbled with different mediums early on, but never committed to any. Ballpoint saved me when I needed clarity. My connection with it isn’t just technical, it’s about accountability. The Bic pen, with all its ordinariness, strips away the illusion of control. What you see is what you drew. No layers to hide behind. I haven’t found another medium that demands that kind of intimacy. And I’m not sure I want to.
III. NOTES, PHOTOS, FLOW STATE
We hear you shoot 100+ photos before even touching the page. Walk us through your process.
My process is research-heavy. It starts with language - notes, fragments, phrases - before it ever becomes visual. Then comes photography. I shoot obsessively, often 80 to 100 images of a single subject, which I later narrow down to five or ten references. Using multiple photos helps free the subject from the limitations of a single snapshot. The drawing only begins after all that. My process is iterative. Music helps me stay in that loop. It’s not about control. It’s about keeping the current flowing.
IV. FROM BLUEPRINTS TO BIC
You studied architecture. Do you still feel its influence?
Architecture taught me precision, sure. But more than that, it taught me to question space and scale. That awareness never left. I draw people now, not buildings. But the discipline carries over. I’m drawn to artists like Toyin Ojih Odutola and Kerry James Marshall. People who use realism as a vehicle for identity, for urgency. They don’t just place Black figures in the frame. They center them. Their work reminds me why I’m doing this.
V. BEYOND THE DOUBLE TAKE
Your work is so detailed, people think it’s a photo. Do you live for the shock?
The double-take still happens. But now, I care more about what happens after that moment, when people stop asking how and start asking why. Hyperrealism is the bait. If that’s all they see, I’ve missed the mark. What matters is when someone lingers long enough to feel the tension, notice what’s exaggerated, or what I chose to leave unresolved. And yes, skeptics come with the territory. That push and pull creates conversation. And without conversation, there’s no art.