My Blog posts are a sneak inside my head, a little insight into my life as a professional artist. Most of these posts begin as thoughts jotted down in the back of a sketchbook as ideas seem to flood in sometimes, a little like paintings. 

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  1. “I like it when a flower or a little tuft of grass grows through a crack in the concrete. It’s so fuckin’ heroic.”

    This quote popped up on my studio calendar today by the late George Carlin, a stand-up comedian, actor & author. It paints such a great visual picture in my head. When you paint you tend to notice all the little things, like weeds growing out of tiny cracks in a dirty urban sprawl and yes they blow my mind with their beauty and sheer determination. I could talk about how nature prevails, despite mankind trying to concrete it over, but this morning I just thought wow, sometimes that’s how I feel as an artist. 


    There are plenty of far more heroic professions, but being an artist often feels like you are working so hard, trying to do all the right things to help you progress, but everyone’s too busy to notice these beautiful things you’ve created. You are trying so hard to find and then squeeze yourself through a tiny crack in the art world. It can be an endurance test, an ill-advised financial gamble, an impossible practical task, a ‘non-career’ vocation, a drain on your social relations, a crushing or occasional ego-boosting rollercoaster with no predetermined methods or incremental steps up the career ladder to guarantee success. You may or may not get training and a qualification for this job; you may or may not find that useful to your career. So why the heck do we put ourselves through this? 

  2. Escape to Ibiza, September 2022 

    Some thoughts from my trip to Ibiza. This was a 'holiday' but when you're an artist you never really completely switch off. I totally recommend a visit to the Museo de arte Contemporaneo in Ibiza...all about this, some sketchbook pages and more below.


    Clear cobalt, warm salted sea, unknotting all the tensed-up months that passed before. Floating. Escaping. Pausing life’s big rush. Ibiza’s tangle of passions and chill. The steady rolling metamorphosis of the pulsing beat, washed colours interpreted as sound. Bodies blending, not a care who’s watching. Warm brown, sand-blown skin, young, old and carefree, somnolent on the sand. 


    Not looking for or expecting inspiration but it always sneaks up on you. Everywhere there were hastily plastered posters advertising nights of music and abandon, bursts of colour and graphics drawing your eye. They seemed to change daily. Always something new. 

    Ibiza image 1