Seeing the world Through Rosy Eyes
How a Toronto-based multimedia artist uses her creative spirit to reshape and reclaim South Asian identity
The sound of chalk scraping across a blackboard echoed through the rigid walls of a classroom in Bangalore. Each day, students sat silently at their designated desks, flipping through bulky textbooks and rapidly jotting down equations. Their hair was pulled back, faces bare, shoes laced and uniforms pressed. The unyielding confines of secondary school made teenage girls seem more like cogs working in a dull academic machine.
But within those same walls, a young Stuti Srivastava refused to let go of her love for the outlandish. Before she left for school, she would twist her hair into playful, extravagant hairstyles and touch her makeup with subtle pops of colour or sparkle.
“I was in a system that was so oppressive to anything creative,” said Srivastava. “[So] I found the most obtuse ways to do it.”
Now 30 and living in Toronto, Srivastava has transformed those early creative instincts into a vibrant artistic career under the name Through Rosy Eyes. Born in Canada, she moved to India with her family at the age of nine and eventually returned to Toronto in 2019. Moving between two countries shaped her understanding of culture and identity—ideas that lie at the heart of her practice. Today, Srivastava creates, commissions and sells a variety of original artworks, often drawing on South Asian symbolism and feminine imagery while continuing to nurture the artistic rebellion she first unleashed when she was a teenager.
“I don't like to call myself a brand because that, to me, feels very corporate,” she says.
She admits that the name can easily be misunderstood.
“The artist name that I chose—Through Rosy Eyes—I feel like it has a very negative [or cynical] connotation because it kind of belays that this person is naive and...trying to see things through rose-tinted glasses.”
Despite the skepticism, Srivastava sees positivity and optimism as one of her strengths, which often bleeds into her illustrations.
“There's probably an undertone of ‘how patriarchy shapes a society’ in the artwork, but it's set in a tone that's like… fever dream gorgeous,” said Srivastava. “With these apsaras and goddesses and divas that are beautifully clad and just like majestic.”
Even in her childhood, Srivastava’s art felt dreamy. She recalls the first time her mother hung one of her paintings on display at home.
“There was a unicorn. I remember there was a rainbow,” she said, “it was very psychedelic, very fever dream—but it was very whimsical. And I think I carry that spirit.”
She describes herself as a multimedia artist, reluctant to confine herself to a singular artistic medium. She has experimented with sketching, painting, jewellery-making and beyond. Trying new things became definitive in her creative practice.
“For your creative energy to be exercised and stretched really well through your life, you've got to be able to experiment and try a medium that you may be shit at,” she said.
But ultimately, digital illustration became the artistic muscle she trained the most.
Fashion still plays a deeply important role in how Srivastava expresses herself. She graduated from Bangalore’s National Institute of Fashion Technology in 2018.
“Even if she's going to get groceries, she will look like she's walked out of a magazine,” said Chantelle Menezes, a Toronto-based musician and friend of Srivastava’s.
Seated in a quiet corner of a bustling coffee shop on King St., Srivastava still stood out from the typical Monday afternoon crowd. Shades of blue, baby pink and pearl dangled and peeked out of her long, dark hair. She was wearing a pair of earrings that she designed and hand-painted herself — one ear was decorated with a small, carefully moulded pigeon, and the other with a pink, heart-sealed envelope. Srivastava calls the piece Letters to Home and created it as an ode to the feathery, letter-delivering creatures that were once at the centre of human connection and communication. In India, it is common to see chabutras, bird towers where people leave grain and water to feed the pigeons. She carried this heartwarming ritual to the West in her own way, often feeding the birds the last of her breakfast as she walks through the city.
“I think like a lot of times art can be a form of decolonization,” said Srivastava.
She believes in telling stories with the clothes and accessories she wears. During an interview shortly after Margot Robbie’s controversial jewellery moment made headlines, Srivastava nodded and pointed to a big, crystal-clear heart-shaped pendant that hung from her neck. She mentioned that she put the necklace on in the morning both as an accessory and a decolonial statement.
Earlier this year, Robbie appeared at the Los Angeles premiere of Wuthering Heights wearing Cartier’s ‘Taj Mahal’ Diamond formerly owned by Old Hollywood icon Elizabeth Taylor. But centuries before it was hers, the jewel was gifted to Nur Jahan, wife of Mughal emperor Shah Jahangir. The jewel was then passed down to their son, Shah Jahan, who is world-famous for commissioning the Taj Mahal in honour of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Robbie wore the historical piece in celebration of its “romantic history,” yet failed to make even the slightest mention of its true origins – even though Nur Jahan’s name is clearly inscribed in Parsee on its surface. Cartier does not disclose how it was acquired, raising ethical concerns about how Indian artifacts enter Western collections. Among South Asian communities, the issue is commonly linked to a broader legacy of colonialism, when precious objects were removed from their place of origin.
“If you want to be a colonizer, you're being cringe. History will remember you for it,” said Srivastava. “You can't control the narrative, but you can kind of reclaim it. You can find your own way to share it.”
“Yeah, Margot Robbie wore this necklace," she said. “But because of that, now so many more people know where it's from.”
Srivastava’s art style continues to attract the attention of other Toronto-based creatives of the South Asian diaspora. Rohit Krishnasamy — known in the music community as Rooh — produces instrumental, fusion music inspired by Indian classical sound. Srivastava recently designed the cover of his debut EP, Prakash.
Krishnasamy came across a series of experimental artworks she created based on the ancient Hindu deity, Kali, who is associated with destruction and feminine power. He described the art as bold, brave and original.
“When I saw that I was like, ‘yeah, she's the artist who's going to work on my EP cover,’” said Krishnasamy.
The cover depicts the courtyard of a traditional Indian house, young Krishnasamy and two of his greatest creative inspirations — his brother and his grandfather — who have both passed away.
“I wanted to showcase that this is the start of me building my house of music,” he said.
Krishnasamy is illustrated holding his older brother’s guitar, whom he credits for his introduction to the world of music. The EP title is a tribute to his name, Prakash. He pointed out that Srivastava’s artistic expertise and willingness to innovate brought his idea to life.
“She was always voicing her opinion, but at the same time, she understood that I had a vision in my mind,” he said, “and she was okay to work with that vision and guide me along the way.”
Srivastava worked carefully with him to create a digital artwork that reflected the heart, culture and familial love that rests at Prakash’s core.
Beyond art, Srivastava also holds common traditions of South Asian womanhood close to her heart. Growing up, she found warmth in the kitty parties her mom would host and attend with her friends. Kitty parties date back to the 1940s in post-partition India, where women often struggled both financially and emotionally — and sisterhood was more vital than ever. The women would pool money and share it with a different group member each month. It lived on to become an enjoyable social gathering for women.
“I didn’t understand the gravity of what this meant to these women, but I always thought it was really cool,” said Srivastava. “And then when I grew up and I moved here, I feel like I really ruminated on that.”
“These women weren't in the habit of centering themselves,” she said. “They weren't really taught to put their voice and their opinion first.”
She now understands the parties as a way of women making time for their needs, rooted in the shared experiences of girlhood, joy and community. Srivastava’s “yearning” and “love for culture” inspired her to host her own rendition of the kitty party. These “whimsically curated workshops” invite women to engage in arts and crafts together, creating a third space for Torontonians to connect with each other while celebrating femininity and South Asian tradition.
“[Every kitty party workshop] has always attracted such good souls and such good energy,” she said. “Women all across culture, I think, are kind of craving that connection and that safety with each other.”
Srivastava’s last kitty party was over a year ago. Looking ahead, she definitely sees them making a comeback as an extension of her artistic practice, making space for culture and creativity to flourish in unison.
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