There comes a point where observation can no longer contain what’s inside. When the architecture of the outer world becomes too small to hold the architecture of feeling, abstraction steps in. These works began that way — as a kind of surrender. I stopped trying to paint and started to listen.
Where stillness meets expression, and every mark becomes memory.
I live and work in Dorset, surrounded by ancient architecture, rolling fields, and the quiet hum of English villages.
My work often begins in observation: the geometry of a church spire, the curve of a pub doorway, the way afternoon light settles on brick. Yet even my architectural paintings are not about buildings — they are about what is discovered inside them.
Alongside these studies of place, I explore the inner landscape — the emotional, the sensual, the abstract. These works often arrive without planning; they are instinctive, intuitive, unfiltered, painted from the pulse rather than the plan. In them, I allow myself to feel fully — to let line, colour, and silence speak what I cannot.
I do not chase perfection. I chase truth.
And in that pursuit, I’ve learned that art, at its core, is an act of surrender — of allowing the world to move through you, and giving something of yourself back in return.
“Each piece I make is a fragment of becoming — a conversation between where I’ve been, and where I am still brave enough to go.”