Painting is my practice...
When I create, I feel peaceful.
This is how I know I’m in the right place. When I create, everything settles. When I create, I stop performing. I get quiet. The static drops away. Painting is my medicine, not because it fixes me, but because it remembers me.
I’ve stumbled plenty in life. I’ve missed turns. I’ve tried to please the wrong people and been on wild goose chases. But creativity has always met me with kindness. I honour it as a sacred presence, a companion and a teacher, something alive that has patiently guided me back to compassion, and back into that quiet inner space where I remember who I am beneath the striving, the shoulds, and the heavy cloak of social expectation.
I am unapologetically a reclusive soul. I find refuge in the process and in my art studio. When I’m working, I stop talking. Language steps aside and slowly, I learn to meet each moment with more grace. Painting forgives me. It is where compassion takes form.
Art teaches me about impermanence and letting go.
I work with mixed media, often using tissue paper, gold and layered surfaces. The process of tearing, repairing, gluing and rebuilding becomes the lesson itself. It asks for trust. It asks me to stay. The wrinkles, dents and scars remain. And honestly, I don’t mind. What matters is that I was present for it, that I met the process with care. My attention used to be on the final finished work, but that has fallen away. For me, it's the pilgrimage and how I got there.
The asemic writing that moves through my work is part of this same enquiry. It's a prayer without language, a quiet expression that comes from feeling rather than thought. These marks are not meant to be read, but sensed. They hold a trace of presence. My wider practice blends together painting, meditation, Buddhist principles, Reiki, cacao and devotional sound. These are not separate strands, but part of the same way of being. Whether I am painting, guiding or holding space, it comes from one place, a steady, attentive awareness. The invitation is simple. To pause. To soften. To return to what is already here. I don't always achieve it, but that is why it is my practice.
And then there are the dots...
I return to them again and again, without needing to understand why. There’s something reassuring in their presence. Each one feels like a breath, a small moment of attention, a quiet landing. They become a kind of meditation. A rhythm. Something I can rest into. In their repetition, the mind begins to settle. Space opens. Time softens. And in their simplicity, they seem to hold something much larger, a sense that even the smallest mark belongs to something whole.
Over time, I’ve stopped seeing creativity as separate from a spiritual path. It feels more like an extension of it, something lived rather than practised. It meets me in beauty, in tenderness, and sometimes in the more difficult places too. It reminds me that all of it belongs. Some days I make very little. Some days I don’t stop. What emerges matters less than the act of staying with it. Less about meaning, more about presence. I hope the paintings carry something of that. Not a message to be understood, but a feeling to sit with. Something quiet, open, and imperfect. Words don’t always come easily to me. They can feel a little awkward, a little incomplete. So instead of trying to explain too much, I’d rather invite you into the space itself.
Come and paint with me.
Sit in the studio.
Feel the rhythm.
Chant.
Drink cacao.
Work in silence.
Or simply be.
Join me, and discover for yourself what words can’t quite say.
