My practice begins in a jolt of visual wonder. A gnarled outcrop of tree bark, a seed head catching the light like steel — in these fleeting instants a simple object opens a portal, and an artwork asks to be alive.

More often than a single piece, I work in extended series over weeks and months, returning to the object that has me in its spell. I call this discipline iterative revelation: staying with a motif until sustained making discloses what a predetermined theme alone never could. Making in series is not repetition but deepening — each return reveals something latent, waiting to be found.

The triptych has become my primary form for this deepening: three panels presented as one composition, whose internal boundaries are events rather than edges — places where a shape pierces the seam, so the eye must work to discover where one picture ends and another begins.

I work in digital media, yet the work is grounded in the sensory reality of human experience. Unlike AI-generated imagery, my compositions are born from a vulnerable and neurodivergent gaze — one that treats texture and light as signals from beneath the visible.

There is a paradox at the heart of this: my subjects belong to the natural world — the most persisting of things — while my medium is the most immaterial. After the long making, I give each work one final, irreversible incarnation: the digital original, a unique 1/1 archival pigment print on heavy rag paper or satin gallery canvas, with century-scale lightfastness. The file is the source; the print is the singular, permanent artefact.

I stop each work at what I think of as interim perfection — the moment when nothing more should be added or removed, when accident and intention arrive at harmony.

My work does not offer a fixed interpretation, but opens a dialogue. In an age of accelerated visual noise, my art offers a space for slowness and careful looking — and suggests that within the most mundane details of daily existence lies an abundance of wonder.

The practice began six years ago, when illness and the pandemic collapsed the foundations of my old life. As a means of coping, I drew the same plant every day for nearly six months — and discovered I was chronicling myself growing and changing alongside a small piece of nature. This is not art about illness; it emerges from the conditions of living with illness and neurodivergence, transforming personal necessity into a shared language of resilience.

I am a founding member of the 'Spiritual in Art' international collective, and my recent work grows ever closer to the conviction that sustained attention to a single ordinary thing can be a spiritual act.

Ultimately, I seek to offer you a catalyst for your own wonder: change is a constant companion, and within every day there is the potential for a miracle.