Crafted in the wild places.
On canvas, in ink, with hands that remember.
From the African tropical forests to the Highlands of Scotland.
Raised amidst the lush tropical jungles of Zambia, my childhood was a wild symphony of tree-climbing escapades, mud-covered adventures, and an untamed spirit. Those formative years, with their vibrant sounds, intoxicating smells, and kaleidoscope of colours, now serve as the bedrock of my artistic expression and storytelling.
Within the first five minutes of our encounter, it becomes apparent how deeply Africa has shaped my identity; I can't help but share the profound impact it has had on my life and creativity.
Blessed with parents who nurtured a spirit of adventure, I was encouraged to push boundaries while always prioritising safety. This ethos propelled me across the globe, allowing me to experience life on five continents before finding my cherished home amid the enchanting highlands of Scotland.
Ghosts at My Shoulder
Whenever I sit down to write or paint, I feel them with me.
Not in a spooky way—though I quite like the idea of a few ghostly figures peering over my shoulder, curious about what I’m working on. It’s more a sense of connection. A quiet presence. The feeling that I’m not creating in isolation, but continuing a thread that stretches far beyond my own lifetime.
Art has always felt like a kind of remembering. A way to reach backwards while moving forwards. And in the quiet moments of making—when the world fades and I slip into that familiar flow—I often find myself thinking about the people who’ve shaped me.
My brother. My nephew. My parents and grandparents. The generations whose lives echo in mine.
Family has always been central to who I am. So much of what I do—whether it’s telling stories, capturing a moment on camera, or layering paint onto canvas—is done with the hope that they’d be proud. That I’m honouring something they passed down, even if I’m still figuring out exactly what that is.
The walls of my home are filled with reminders: paintings from my grandmother and great-aunts, gifted by family or found in unexpected places. Old photographs. Portraits of my great-grandfather, still holding space like quiet witnesses. Even my name carries echoes of someone before me—a namesake whose life I’ve pieced together in glimpses and half-told tales.
Creating is how I stay connected. It’s how I listen, even when no one is speaking. And maybe, just maybe, it’s how they check in on me too. This isn’t just about art. It’s about legacy. It’s about letting their stories thread through mine—and maybe leaving something behind for whoever comes next. A gesture. A memory. A hint that we were here, and we cared.
