A Way of Seeing
Every painting begins without a destination. I rarely start with a fixed image or idea. Instead, I begin by responding to colour, texture and material, allowing relationships to emerge gradually through observation rather than control.
As the work develops, I begin to notice rhythms, structures and connections that seem to reveal themselves rather than being consciously designed. This moment—when intuition and observation meet—is where the real conversation with the painting begins.
My work is inspired by the patterns that recur throughout nature, human experience and the universe. Whether they appear in the branching of a tree, the movement of water or the ways people connect and change, these shared structures suggest an underlying order that links seemingly unrelated things.
I don’t see painting as a way of illustrating ideas. It is a way of discovering them. Each work becomes an exploration of connection, transformation and the unseen forces that shape our lives, inviting viewers to pause, look more deeply and perhaps recognise something of themselves within it.
Paintings
Every painting begins as a conversation between me and the canvas. I arrive with curiosity rather than certainty, responding to colour, texture and movement while allowing the work to unfold at its own pace. Some paintings find their direction quickly; others ask to be questioned, painted over and rediscovered many times before they reveal who they are.
What interests me most isn’t creating an image, but allowing something to emerge that neither the painting nor I could have imagined when we began.
Texture Art
Touch is my favourite sense. I love the softness of fabric, the roughness of stone, the dryness of cement and the smooth surface of a newly opened leaf. I’m fascinated by the conversations that happen when these materials meet.
Many of my mixed-media works are intended to be experienced through touch as well as sight. Texture isn’t simply something to look at—it is part of the language of the work.
Mosaic
Every mosaic begins with a single piece. Individually, each fragment is simple; together they become something far greater than the sum of their parts. It is a process that has taught me patience, precision and the beauty of seeing the whole while working one piece at a time.
Whether creating an intimate artwork or contributing to monumental architectural projects, I am continually fascinated by the way countless individual elements can come together to create something lasting.
From Monumental Projects to Personal Practice
For more than two decades, mosaic has been the foundation of my artistic life. During that time I have contributed to some of the world’s most ambitious architectural mosaic projects, including the Abraj Al Bait Clock Tower in Mecca—home to the largest artistic mosaic installation ever created—and the mosaic cladding of the Giant Medina Umbrellas, one of the most remarkable engineering achievements of recent decades.
My work also forms part of the permanent fabric of London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, where 105 square metres of floor mosaic were installed in the Exhibition Road Quarter.
Working on projects of this scale taught me not only technical precision, but also how individual fragments come together to create something far greater than themselves. That understanding continues to shape my contemporary painting practice, where ideas of structure, connection and emergence remain central to my work.
Curiosity in the Studio
One of my favourite phrases is, “I wonder what would happen if…”
It might be, “What happens if I soak this in PVA?” or “How will fluid acrylic behave over wet cement?” Sometimes it’s a new pigment, a piece of fabric, a handful of plaster or a material I’ve never seen anyone use in a painting before.
Occasionally the results are wonderful.
Occasionally they’re terrible.
At one point I even glued a biscuit to a canvas because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It wasn’t. It looked ridiculous… and afterwards it wasn’t much good to eat either.
But that’s part of the process.
For me, creativity depends on curiosity. It means allowing ideas to be tested without already knowing where they’ll lead. Some experiments disappear beneath the next layer of paint within minutes; others quietly become the beginning of an entirely new body of work.
I think one of the greatest freedoms an artist can have is the freedom to fail. If something doesn’t work, nothing is lost. I simply paint over it and begin again.
That freedom—to explore without trying to satisfy an imagined audience or an imagined critic—is what allows the work to become honest. Every painting that eventually finds its way onto this website has survived countless decisions, discoveries, mistakes and revisions. What remains is not perfection, but something that feels true.