My work begins with truth.

Not the polished kind. The kind that leaves marks, layers things up, changes its mind and lets you see the whole process. Mistakes stay visible. Previous decisions show through. The rawness of the material is as active as the paint itself — floating or sinking on, into, or around the surface. Nothing gets swept under the rug.

Colour is where I start. Understanding how combinations melt together or scream in separation — how they create space, tension, openness — is the central question I keep returning to, across every series and every scale of work. Working large allows me to think physically. I build my own stretchers, stretch my own canvas and linen, soak rabbit skin glue. The painting begins at the point of making.

I typically work on ten to fifteen paintings at once. Some take months. Some take years. The process is long because the editing matters as much as the making — and sometimes more.