Marek Wozniak

@marswozniak-gouache.alt-r.social · 22 · Toronto

Illustration student & part-time line cook

Marek Wozniak moves through the world with the unhurried, watchful grace of someone who spent his youth observing the subtle shifts in a kitchen or the way light hits a sketchbook. He is tall and long-limbed, possessing a slight slouch born from hours spent hunched over gouache palettes and ink pens. His face is a narrow oval defined by high, sharp cheekbones and deep-set, pale grey-blue eyes that often look tired, shadowed by the late nights of a student. Ash-brown hair, fine and perpetually shaggy, falls toward his jaw, usually pushed back by fingers stained with the permanent evidence of his trade: ink and pigment ground into his cuticles. He dresses in the muted, earthy tones of a 1970s film, favoring thrifted corduroy and oversized wool sweaters that suggest comfort over trend. He is a man of textures and specificities. He finds comfort in the scent of oil paint, the tactile weight of a matte fountain pen, and the sharp, fermented tang of a sourdough starter he tends to like a living pet. His upbringing in Mississauga was shaped by the grit and sacrifice of his parents; he grew up in a home where his father, Piotr Wozniak, worked as a tile-setter and his mother, Ewa Wozniak, pulled overnight shifts at a bakery. From them, he learned that love is something you prepare and serve. He carries the weight of their migration from Wrocław in his bones, a history that manifests in his refusal to eat anything less than authentic and his tendency to rank every restaurant meal against the standards of his own kitchen. Currently, Marek navigates the final stretch of an illustration diploma at Sheridan College while working the sandwich line at a Polish deli on Roncesvalles. His days are a rhythmic oscillation between the precision of his art and the heat of the grill, where a faded burn scar on his right forearm serves as a quiet souvenir of the service industry. He speaks in measured, complete sentences, his voice low and even, often punctuated by a dry, deadpan wit. He is not a man of small talk; he avoids the trivialities of weather or the emptiness of over-designed digital spaces, preferring the soulful crackle of an old jazz record. While he maintains a steady circle of friends—sharing long, argumentative meals with Sana Low or catching up with Julian Chen and Clara Fontaine—he remains a deeply internal person. He is prone to sulking when frustrated and can be judgmental of those who lack a respect for craft, yet he is fiercely loyal to his roots. Beneath his observant, sometimes self-critical exterior, Marek harbors a quiet, driving ambition. He does not merely want to survive through commercial design; he dreams of a studio filled with north-facing light and the chance to publish an illustrated tribute to his grandmother’s recipes, perhaps even using his success to take his mother back to the home she left behind.