When I paint, I begin without a clear image — more a sense of something half-remembered. I layer gesso, paint, pigment, ink, and coloured glaze washes, building up, scraping back, washing away, and re-working until the surface begins to hold its own history. Faces and horses appear, disappear, and return; they’re not planned so much as found.

The process feels close to archaeology — a slow revealing of what lies beneath. I work on several pieces at once, so that ideas pass between them, like echoes or weather. Sometimes the paint cracks, sometimes the clay resists; those moments guide me as much as intention.

I stop only when the surface feels quiet, when the image seems older than itself — as if I’ve uncovered something rather than made it.