Process

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Most days, you’ll find me tucked away in my cosy home studio in Wiltshire—paint-stained, surrounded by canvases, and very much not alone. I share my space with two furry companions: Frankie, a gentle golden Labrador, and Freddy, a mischievous, fluffy chaos-kitty who believes every surface is his kingdom (including the artwork).

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They’re not just company—they’re collaborators, in a way. Their tails frequently add the odd unexpected brushstroke as they pass by, contributing their own flair to my process. It’s all part of the charm.

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In this small space, I do it all: mix my own paints, stretch canvas, create (and sometimes destroy), and steadily layer paint not only on canvas, but increasingly on my floorboards too. At last count, I’ve got over 300 paintings neatly “tetrised” into my flat. It’s starting to resemble a very colourful game of art-themed Jenga.

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At this point, it might be time to think about moving into a proper external studio—but there’s something comforting about the chaos, the closeness, and the spirit of home that lives in every corner of this space. For now, it’s still where the magic happens—tails, paint splashes and all.

Every painting begins long before the first brushstroke touches the canvas. In my studio, the creative process starts with making my own paints—an evolving practice that has become central to how I work and grow as an artist.

More and more, I’m choosing to craft my materials by hand, blending raw pigments with linseed oil and marble dust to create a paint that’s uniquely mine. This combination not only gives me full control over color and texture, but also invites me into a deeper relationship with the medium itself. It’s a physical, tactile process—grinding, mulling, adjusting—that reflects the same intention and care I bring to the canvas.

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The result is a color signature that’s personal and expressive, full of subtle variations and unexpected beauty. Making my own paint allows me to explore texture and tone on my own terms, pushing the boundaries of what I can achieve visually.

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As this practice continues to develop, it’s shaping the way I see, feel, and ultimately, paint.

I don’t plan my art—truth be told, they tend to have a life of their own. Each piece starts as a loose idea (or sometimes just a feeling) and unfolds in ways I rarely anticipate. Creating without a fixed path invites the unexpected, and that’s exactly where the magic often happens.

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Working this way allows the subconscious to speak up. Without strict structure, I make space for genuine emotions and raw ideas to emerge naturally. It’s less about control and more about listening—responding to what the work is becoming rather than forcing it into a box.

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This approach also keeps things playful. There's joy in not knowing, in letting the paint, form, or texture steer the direction. It’s a bit chaotic at times, but that’s part of the charm. Some of my favorite moments in the studio come from happy accidents and unplanned turns.

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In the end, the work often surprises me—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

People are often surprised when I tell them I can’t see images in my mind. I have Aphantasia—a rare condition that means I don’t visualise mental pictures. No internal movie reels or vivid daydreams. Just… darkness. ( and que - the sound of silence by Simon and Garfunkel...)  For a long time, I didn’t even realise this was unusual.

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But instead of 'seeing' it as a limitation, I’ve come to understand it as a unique part of how I create. Because I can’t rely on imagined visuals, I lean into what’s right in front of me—my immediate senses, impulses, and emotions. Painting becomes less about executing a vision, and more about discovering one in the moment.

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This way of working has naturally led me towards abstraction and expressionism. Without a fixed image in mind, I’m free to explore the canvas through movement, texture, and feeling. It’s raw, it’s reactive, and often completely surprising—even to me.

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My art doesn’t come from a picture in my head. It comes from the act itself—from the process, the mood, the colour that felt right in that second. It’s emotional, intuitive, and deeply personal. And somehow, in that absence of inner imagery, I’ve found my most honest voice as an artist.

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Over time, I’ve developed many collections of work that feel like visual languages—each one rooted in a particular rhythm or tone. Through these evolving series, I explore stories, emotions, and memories in a state of free flow. The language stays the same, but the story is always changing.

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More recently, this approach has led me to writing stream-of-consciousness poetry to accompany some of my pieces. Just like my paintings, these writings aren't pre-planned or polished—they emerge in the moment, reflecting the same emotional landscape that shapes the work on canvas.

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These poems aren’t explanations; they’re extensions. Another layer of voice. Sometimes they offer a glimpse into the mood behind the piece. Other times, they exist beside it like a whispered echo. Together, the visual and the verbal create a kind of conversation—one that’s raw, intuitive, and deeply personal.

It’s not about clarity or conclusion. It’s about presence, process, and the quiet power of letting things unfold as they will.

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Some of these can be found at my exhibitions hidden inside of red envelopes around the gallery.  

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