By the time you’ve reached this far down the path, you may already sense that there is something a little different about the way things are made here.
Over time, I came to realise that my artwork didn’t quite belong to any familiar tradition. It wasn’t just illustration, or watercolour, or storytelling. It was something quieter. Something that asked to be made and collected.
I realised I was gathering pages and moments that begin not with a plan but with a pause—a kind of soft attunement to the imaginal world. Sometimes, the images arrive like echoes from some older place; at other times, they emerge slowly, like dawn on a hedge-rowed lane. This is not just art as expression, but art as reverence. A conversation with the unseen. A quiet collaboration with wonder.
These quiet images have their roots in the ancient traditions. Much like the illuminators of old—those who painted tiny gold-leafed windows into the sacred—practitioners and creators of small, enchanted thresholds. Each piece is a kind of portal, offering the viewer a glimpse into the in-between: the misty hour before morning, the rustle beneath the hedgerow, the story between stories.
