I have been painting since childhood and although I have not had a formal art education, I have spent many years researching my techniques and never stop honing and improving my skills. Painting is my way of life.
I use a combination of hot and cold wax techniques which are ideally suited to my style of painting. I love building multiple layers; scraping back to reveal what is beneath; printing, moulding, layering, glazing and gilding. The finished painting is often buffed with a clear wax surface giving a durable enamel like finish.
I have exhibited in several wonderful galleries including Pink Foot Gallery in Cley-Next-the-Sea, Norfolk. My work has been collected nationally and internationally and I have pieces in private and corporate collections including The Bank of England.
My Personal Sketch
Creativity is at the heart of my existence. I have said that the watery skies of North Norfolk fill my imagination with paintings longing to be painted. This still holds true.
Having grown in Cromer, my hours spent meandering the cliffs watching the tussocks of wind tugged grass, strewn with harebells, the swaying of the gorse or rising of the skylark whose song whispered into the air, sometimes still but often blown silent by the wind. I saw the cliffs as life’s beginning and an invitation into the vast ocean of the future.
Never were the cliffs bleak or threatening but inviting in the in the way that the best promises are. What was behind me was a disturbing lonely childhood but what lay ahead in my imagination was permeated with hope.
Beneath my feet was the crumbling of the clay heart of the cliffs fragmented; spilling the secrets of millennia. Moments suspended in time as the wings of a bird motionless in the invisible easterly winds.
Yet, there was one defining moment; one night. That night a portion of cliff sheared away sinking towards the shore, sliding with surreal almost still movement a suspended slouching fragment, tearing and ripping, gaping til it paused motionless again. The blackthorn hedge was toppled, the turf at it’s roots rucked, split and torn. And tucked in its thorns and branches, strewn with confetti blossom was the wren’s nest and flitting in and out with wind tugged wings the tiny birds were feeding their young. To them an insignificant moment; to me a life defining stillness that will never leave.
Never would I be abandoned or set adrift but forever fed and protected by a loving hand.
Painting is my way of life; without it there is no story or dream, no poetry or moment.