My Process
For me, making art is a process of discovery. I rarely begin knowing exactly where a work is going. There may be a colour I want to explore, a material I’m curious about, a shape or movement that has caught my attention — but I like to leave enough space for the work to surprise me.
The studio is where ideas become experiments, experiments become accidents, and accidents sometimes become the most interesting part of the painting.
Curiosity
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.
Some experiments disappear beneath the next layer of paint. Others change the direction of the work. And occasionally, one opens a door I hadn’t even known was there.
Experimentation
I love materials, particularly when I don’t quite know what they are going to do.
Paint, plaster, cement, fabric, resin, glass — each has its own character and its own way of behaving. I don’t want to completely control that. The work becomes more interesting when I allow the materials to have their own voice.
One of the most important freedoms I give myself is the freedom to fail. I try not to work toward a predetermined “product” that has to succeed. If something doesn’t work, I can paint over it, pull it apart or try something else. That freedom allows me to take risks and follow unexpected possibilities.
Making becomes a conversation between what I intend and what actually happens.
I make a move. The material responds. I look. Then I respond to that.
Gradually something begins to emerge.
Intuition
There comes a point in making a work when thinking becomes quieter.
I begin to notice relationships rather than consciously search for them — a line that needs to continue, a colour that suddenly feels wrong, an area that needs space, a rhythm appearing between forms. I move things, add something, remove something, and wait to see what the work asks for next.
This is probably the hardest part of my process to explain, because it isn’t entirely intellectual.
It is closer to listening.
The longer I work on something, the more the relationship shifts from What do I want this to become? toward What is already happening here?
That distinction matters to me. Intuition isn’t the absence of thought or intention. It is a willingness to notice what has appeared beyond them.
Discovery
This is why I don’t think of art primarily as a way of illustrating ideas. For me, it is a way of discovering them.
The structures and connections that fascinate me often find their way into the work without being consciously placed there. Sometimes I understand what a work is about only after I have made it.
And perhaps that is what keeps bringing me back to the studio: the possibility that if I remain curious and attentive to what is happening in front of me, I might discover something I didn’t already know.
