Mixed media on canvas
150cm x 150cm / 59 x 59 in.
2025
Maighdean Mhara, is a title borrowed from Scottish Gaelic meaning Maiden of the Sea. Pronounced phoenetically in English as Maych-tune Vaara, it’s a contemplative work rooted in memory, distance, and the quiet resonance of place. Initially conceived through a more figurative lens, the piece gradually shifted into something more distilled — an evocation rather than a depiction. It became a way of holding open a space for reflection, even as the original context faded into abstraction. Entilted as to be respectful to the memory of the people who came before and lived in the part of the world that it makes literal references to.
Set against the remote west northern edge of mainland Scotland, the work draws on the experience of entering the boundary between land and the vastness of the North Atlantic — facing westward towards sunset and infinity. The horizon, impossible to reach, becomes a metaphor: for longing, deep time, and the enduring presence of moments in our lives.
There’s a quiet emotional current running through Maighdean Mhara — a sense of stillness paired with vast, unseen movement. It speaks to how particular landscapes can absorb and become living vessels for memory.
Mixed media on canvas
140cm x 140cm / 55.1 x 55.1 in.
2025
Lost Connection began with a moment of interruption—a dropped signal in my headphones, and the automated voice calmly announcing: “Lost connection.” It was a perfect title. Not just for that moment, but for a much broader condition—technological, emotional, cultural, and spiritual.
This work is composed of fragments—visual and conceptual elements from earlier pieces that were left behind. They had lost their context, their purpose. But in this new configuration, they make unexpected sense. That process reflects something essential: the ways we repurpose meaning, reassemble memory, and find coherence in what’s been discarded.
The forms in the piece—cuboids and crosses—suggest digital packets, bits of data, but they also echo deeper patterns: our relationships, beliefs, habits, inner lives. Between these shapes lies an intentional emptiness—a pause, a breakdown, a digital no-man’s land. It’s a place where something might still live, or something might already be gone.
Over time, the piece has come to feel increasingly personal. It speaks to the loss of specific people—connections that ended through distance, rupture, or death. As I grow older, those absences accumulate. But what remains is not absence, exactly—it’s a changed presence. Memory is a form of connection. So is grief.
Visually, many of the textures are distressed, deformed, decayed. They resemble familiar things—snippets of everyday visual language—but their meaning has eroded. They function now as echoes: of materials in their prime, of clarity, of meaning. They’re haunted forms. And in that, they are also beautiful.
But there is a larger context. We are living in a time of extreme saturation—of imagery, of narrative, of news. And what we consume as “news” is increasingly corrosive. The media has become less transparent, more agenda-driven, more performative. Its role is no longer to inform, but to polarize, to monetize. We are shaped by this distortion, often unconsciously. We no longer connect to ourselves in any real way. Instead, we adopt identities from online hysteria: pro-this, anti-that, locked into constant reaction.
We’ve lost connection with nature, with truth, with each other—and maybe most alarmingly, with our own sense of being. We are living in Koyaanisqatsi—life out of balance.
Lost Connection is not just about signal loss or technological interruption. It’s about entropy at every level—personal, cultural, planetary. But it’s also about what still remains. The echo. The ghost of meaning. The possibility of reconnection, even if it looks nothing like it used to.
Mixed media on canvas
140cm x 140cm / 55.1 x 55.1 in.
2025
Somewhere to Land captures the moment just after upheaval—when the violence or pain of change has passed, and the remnants begin to descend. It’s the stillness that follows the storm, the quiet gravity that draws fragments down. Whether those fragments are physical—debris from a tornado, shrapnel from an explosion, radioactive dust—or abstract—memories, emotions, identities, money, purpose—they all follow the pull of time, and they all must eventually find somewhere to land. The painting speaks to that inevitability: the settling of chaos, the slow and certain reordering that follows disruption, as the universe reclaims its pieces.
Mixed media on canvas
115cm x 190cm / 45.2 x 74.8 in.
2025
An exploration of the grammar of our navigation in the digital realm. Up, down. Left, right. Scroll up. Scroll down. Swipe left. Swipe right. It’s flat, but we move through it. These motions have become second nature, yet they come loaded with meaning. Swipe left, swipe right. A decision, a judgment, a gesture.
I come from a generation that met the screen when it first came into the home — not as a window to everything, but as a place. My first computer was an Amstrad CPC-464, mid-to-late ’80s. It had a green monitor — all colours rendered as shades of that glowing phosphor green. Most games then — the ones with real movement, real action — used the keyboard. Q for up, A for down, O for left, P for right. Spacebar to fire.
Those keys were actual buttons. They required pressure. Muscle. Response. There’s something wholesome about that now. Something we’ve lost. The tactile is missing. Not just from digital media, but maybe from life more broadly. The feel of keys under fingers has been replaced by the swipe, the tap, the barely-there gesture on a pane of glass. The screen — our portal, our tool, our trap — is flat. Charlie Brooker called it the black mirror, and it is.
In this piece, I wanted to reflect that flatness — the artificial surface, the pixelated logic — but balance it with something more human. Something made. Traditional mark making. Hand-drawn lines, physical gestures. To bring back a sense of the body, the hand, the imperfection.
Mixed media on canvas
150cm x 180cm / 59 x 70.8 in.
2025
Untitled ( The Parallax View ) began during a time of profound uncertainty. The canvas was, at first, a monument—something that could be both looked at and looked from. It anchored me to that place and moment, reflecting two possible futures, one of which felt catastrophic.
Over time, the image was exhibited, then taken off its stretcher and stored—out of sight, gathering dust. When I returned to it, the emotional charge it once held had shifted. What I had once labored over, I no longer felt bound to. I began removing large areas, erasing elements I no longer liked. In the process, even parts I had wanted to keep began to fall away.
Rather than resist, I surrendered to that momentum of reduction. There was an unexpected satisfaction in the act of removal—in destroying what I had once so carefully made. The image that emerged is stripped, pared down, raw. What remains speaks more clearly to me than what came before.
There’s something deeply temporal in this process—something was here, and now it’s gone. The marks left behind are quieter, humbler. They suggest not just what was, but what has passed. I’m drawn to the humility of that. It reminds me of Rauschenberg’s Erased de Kooning Drawing—how absence can be as loaded as presence, and how erasure can be a form of truth.
Mixed media on canvas
140cm x 140cm / 55.1 x 55.1 in.
2025
Schism explores the quiet tension of elements that are separated yet remain undeniably connected. Across the pale surface, three distinct zones emerge — each occupying its own space, each self-contained — but all made from the same visual language and process.
Within these three areas, cross motifs repeat like quiet beacons, acting as markers of content or information. These crosses suggest points of significance — coordinates in a visual landscape or map, or data within a record or memory — as if the surface holds fragments of a larger system or document, now broken into parts seperated geologically or emotionally. Though the full meaning of these marks remains undetermined, their presence across all three zones creates an undeniable sense of structure — a pattern that ties the fragments together even as they drift apart or towards each other. Unified in seperation.
The space between these zones is is essential and as active as the forms themselves. These wide, unmarked areas declare that there is distance, pause, or separation, yet they also suggest that the parts are connected in ways that are unseen — like pages from the same book scattered apart, or islands in the same sea. This tension between distance and unity is what gives the painting its quiet energy: the forms are separate, but they belong to each other.
The work invites the viewer to consider systems of knowledge, memory, or mapping that have been interrupted — where meaning is dispersed but not destroyed. It suggests that connection can persist across distance, both physical and the metaphysical and that fragments can remain parts of a whole even when they no longer touch. Entangled.
Mixed media on canvas
135cm x 135cm / 53.1 x 53.1 in.
2025
The Sectarian Kitchen examines the subtle, domestic ways division is passed down through generations. Set against the backdrop of Scottish sectarianism, the work draws on my experience growing up in a Protestant family in Scotland during a time when identity—religious, cultural, political—was often handed to you rather than chosen. Fortunately, I was given the freedom to think for myself, and that space allowed me to question the systems that surrounded me.
In Scotland, sectarianism is not confined to churches or history books—it’s embedded in the day-to-day. Most visibly, it plays out through football, where the rivalry between Rangers and Celtic becomes a proxy for inherited religious and political loyalties. What is often described as “friendly competition” masks something much deeper and more damaging: the sustained division of people along ideological lines.
The title of this work draws attention to the domestic, the so-called feminine space—the kitchen—as a place where these divisions are quietly preserved. While the public shouting often happens in stadiums and pubs, it is in private, family settings that these worldviews are often first shaped and internalised. The “kitchen” becomes both literal and symbolic: a space of nurture, but also of passive inheritance.
This painting also points to how these inherited divisions extend beyond religion or sport—into the very structure of the nation itself. The 2014 Scottish independence referendum offered an opportunity for political self-determination, for Scotland to loosen the grip of a centuries-old power imbalance with London. And yet, on the ground, I observed that many voted against independence not on economic or legislative terms, but out of loyalty to monarchic symbolism: the Crown, the Union, the Queen. In some circles, particularly those aligned with Rangers culture, loyalty to the monarchy outweighed practical considerations of sovereignty and social justice.
To me, that’s not good enough.
Since then, the consequences of remaining tied to Westminster—particularly in the wake of Brexit—have become painfully clear. Scotland continues to suffer under a political system that neither understands nor prioritises its needs. And yet, tradition holds fast. This is the deeper problem: tradition, while often comforting, can also be a cage. It binds people to stories that no longer serve them and inhibits the maturity of a nation that could otherwise redefine itself on its own terms.
The Sectarian Kitchen is about the absurdity of clinging to division out of habit. It’s about questioning the stories we’re told to live by—whether religious, cultural, or national—and asking who benefits when we keep telling them. It is, ultimately, a call to see beyond tradition for its own sake, and to imagine a future that isn’t scripted by the past.
Mixed media on canvas
50cm x 70cm / 19.6 x 27.5 in.
2025
Nam, omnimpo rioriscium volestio que ent pedis apiciatur rae cor acculparum quam faceatum is aut laccus.
Henimin pa et, sunt quis auta volo berit, nem. Ut optatem. Aquatiorem et et volendam, aut aut faces et ea consequae et most posa deritibea voluptur aut autatin vendic te culpa
Mixed media on canvas
150cm x 150cm / 59 x 59 in.
2025
Nam, omnimpo rioriscium volestio que ent pedis apiciatur rae cor acculparum quam faceatum is aut laccus.
Henimin pa et, sunt quis auta volo berit, nem. Ut optatem. Aquatiorem et et volendam, aut aut faces et ea consequae et most posa deritibea voluptur aut autatin vendic te culpa
Mixed media on canvas
145cm x 145cm / 57 x 57 in.
2025
Nam, omnimpo rioriscium volestio que ent pedis apiciatur rae cor acculparum quam faceatum is aut laccus.
Henimin pa et, sunt quis auta volo berit, nem. Ut optatem. Aquatiorem et et volendam, aut aut faces et ea consequae et most posa deritibea voluptur aut autatin vendic te culpa
