I work with continuous fluidity and imperfection as a means to stay open: to learning, unlearning, and unexpected shifts in thought and form. I trust this process to nourish me steadily while making space for the raw energy of sudden epiphanies.

I work within abstraction, responding intuitively to colour, mark-making, and the tactile nature of materials. This instinctive, open-ended approach has led me to describe my work as Temporal Feral Forms, transient in nature, materially responsive, and resistant to fixed categorisation.

When I think about my work in the expanded field, I hold both the present and the past in mind. I’m deeply engaged with contemporary conversations, but I also return to the ancient origins of art: from the portable scored ochre of early humans to paintings flickering in fiery torchlight on cave walls. Art – in both the making and the being with it – transcends the limitations of organised life and opens a portal to an enigmatic, non-verbal connection with our deepest (fallible) humanity.

As a low-income artist raising two young children, my working-class background gives me the agency to think, make, and sustain a practice that questions dominant capitalist systems – unravelling who benefits, and why those systems persist. I’ve recently been exploring anarchafeminism, whose principles resonate with how I’ve already been working and living – particularly autonomy, resistance to hierarchy, and a sense of interconnectedness.

I find it inspiring to be part of a collective within working-class cultural history and present time, where imagination and creativity come together to make ambitious, critically engaged art – without contorting ourselves, our lives, or our practices into ideologies that ultimately benefit only the ruling class.

Aluminium cooking foil is a cheap, democratic material, full of potential and interesting properties. It allows me to work with a variety of sizes, processes, and speeds. Conceptually, I like how the foil substrate contributes as much to the painting as the paint and my actions. It is easily portable. There are no hidden support structures dictating size, shape, or form. Instead, there are perpetual stories of movement and adaptation, with momentary pauses of repose here and there.

These stories run throughout my whole process: how I begin the work mentally and physically moving; how the materials move in response; how fragility and strength are explored; how the work is installed; how a person moves around the work; how the work is packed up, stored, unpacked, and reacquainted with – each time visibly ageing and changing. In accepting entropy, I make space for a practice that refuses closure – one that evolves, adapts, and continues to listen.