There is no change without change
Examining the old while embracing the new
Autumn brings a natural dose of change as the air cools; the leaves toast to a soft gold and burn as fiery red as though the heat of the summer lingers in the trees.
From late April, thick heat clutched London and hardly relented until August. The soft grass on the commons desiccated to dust and I let myself finally unravel in new friendships, therapy and intimacy.
At the confluence of summer and autumn, another year falls away for me and I feel an immiscible combination of quiet grief and excitement. I heard 31 can be more of a jolt than 30. I spent the whole of last summer, at the pointy end of 29, saying I was 30 so that when it finally came it wouldn’t feel so potent. But now 31 pulls me into thirty something and the expectations and reflections that come with it.
The last few years has been a period of path forging and learning my own nuances, flecked with sticky limerence towards men that weren’t interested in this version I was uncovering. Some of them were good and some of them were not. An anvil-like hangover from a damaging relationship would keep me clinging, white-knuckled, to the idea of someone choosing me, while covertly and unknowingly making it impossible for the right person to be able to. I found a strange thread linking my personal and creative lives, one where being seen and understood felt both difficult and important, and admitting that seems strangely impermissible.
After a string of impossible choices and trying to proverbially jam a square into a circle, it became obvious to me during the winter that there is no change without change. I deleted all dating apps and began to throw out everything that didn’t serve me, slowly. Spring arrived with upward sloping hope and sudden lurches downwards; drops that felt initially devastating, but dissipated quicker and quicker. I continued to exhume my old, original self. I spent those few months just moving from week to week, hardly noticing the change until one day it was impossible not to see. I started to say yes to everything. I joined teams, tried new sports, and my world started widening again. It’s strange that I hardly remember chunks of that time, and I look back at photos from my camera roll and paintings in my studio as proof that I consistently existed. That strange feeling slid away from me, and its in place I began to examine the decade in my wake, balanced with therapy and hot evenings at barbecues and beer gardens. In my head and in my painting I delved into places that held quiet moments, solace and and change: heaving oceans, proud mountains and sweet grass.
I became obsessed with the deadline of my autumn solo show. It’s like I bathed in memories and paint for months, making paintings immortalising all the moments and places that made me. Then September finally arrived to bookend the season and an era. Precious genuine support from my circle buoyed me as the time came to reveal the contents of my studio, and my head.
They say an artist should paint what is true to them and should not seek the admiration or opinion of others. But to share in something beautiful with others is in itself beautiful; looking at the search for validation in this light makes it seem more noble. We all want to be seen and understood. Artists are no different. A solitary, personal, exposing profession is made absolutely worth it when, even if by just one person, it is truly seen. There is no shame in wanting to share the beauty of what we make, but to share in it, we must both feel it and have the courage to offer it to others.
This summer, in a messy unpacking and razing of unhelpful beliefs, I found truly sharing what I do, in pairing the physical state of painting with its emotional rationale, to be both terrifying and fulfilling. In revealing all of its aspects, I allow both it, and myself, to be seen. The ambition of the painting and writing that went into my London solo show, Stay Forever, was to open up the last decade of poignant experiences and moments so that they can be bare, and shared, forever.
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In my London studio, July 2025