Statement

I work in the space where the natural world collides with the political one — because pretending those are separate conversations is a luxury we can no longer afford.

My sculptures and paintings don't depict nature. They interrogate it. I'm drawn to degradation — the slow erosion of ecosystems, of boundaries, of trust — and to the barriers we erect in response: walls that protect nothing, systems that preserve the wrong things, borders drawn by hands that will never touch the soil they divide.

I pull form, texture, and material from the environment and push them until they break, bend, or speak back. Surfaces crack. Structures lean. Things that were once solid become porous. That deterioration isn't incidental — it's the point.

Texture doesn't decorate — it confronts. Mass doesn't anchor — it threatens. In my work, every surface is a site of degradation, every form a barrier already failing. The organic and the man-made are pressed together until the boundary between them tears. What's left is the residue of that friction.

Bio

I'm self-taught. No formal training, no institutional validation — just an eye I've always had and the stubborn refusal to ignore it. The permission to call myself an artist took years to arrive. When it did, it came not from a classroom but from a studio in Wimbledon in 2022. I haven't looked back.

I was born and raised in Crawley — a post-war satellite town wedged between London and Brighton, built for function, not inspiration. But constraint has a way of shaping you. I spent my early twenties as a freelance photographer, watching the ceiling get lower. I knew that if I was going to push, I needed to leave.

London came next. I landed in Whitechapel in 2018, living in a former Salvation Army hostel under property guardianship — cheap, vast, and full of room to experiment. I moved through photography, furniture, painting, and more, always feeling the pressure to pick one and commit. It took a pandemic and a period of forced stillness to see what had been true all along: the different practices weren't distractions. They were mediums on the same palette. I was an artist. The journey began.

My Work

My work draws from the world around us — politically, physically, materially. The world is becoming increasingly polarised, and I try to hold that tension: combining materials that shouldn't coexist, creating surfaces that are beautiful and uncomfortable in equal measure. The prettiest things carry the darkest messages. Caravaggio understood that. So does this work.

I started with ink and charcoal, drawn to the depth and texture two simple mediums could produce. Then came paint and resin. Then the moment I noticed people battling with themselves over whether or not to reach out and touch one of my paintings — and I knew the work needed to become three-dimensional. Objects you could actually pick up. Forms that demanded contact.

In 2024 I bought a wood-turning lathe and taught myself to use it via YouTube. I work exclusively with wood from trees that have fallen naturally or been felled by disease — nothing harvested for the sake of it. Every vessel is carved and manipulated by hand, tool marks and all. In an age of AI, that feels like a political act. Aggressively human. Simple, imperfect, and made.