Neon Bunch began at Gods Own Junkyard, Walthamstow — a warehouse dense with artificial light, walls of glowing neon signs. The question it asks is simple: what happens to natural form when seen through artificial light?

Charcoal lines establish the skeletal structure of the bloom — precise, architectural, load-bearing. Around them, acrylic in a deliberately unnatural palette builds in layers: electric, dense, compressing the composition until the floral form is simultaneously legible and overwhelmed. Wax crayon adds a luminous, resistant surface that paint cannot fully cover — light held within the mark itself.

Not a flower as it exists in nature. A flower as neon sees it.

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon — mythological, abundant, lost — provide the starting point. But where the legend celebrates excess, this work does the opposite: charcoal strips the garden back to its structural truth.

Drawn from memory rather than observation, Semiramis’ Garden captures the forest before the leaves arrive — when branching logic is still fully visible, not yet concealed by growth. Black and white is not a stylistic choice but a conceptual one: colour would restore the beauty that the work deliberately refuses. What remains is the skeleton of a garden — the architecture beneath the abundance, the bone beneath the bloom.

A glass of wine. A rose half-seen. Rosé Drift occupies the threshold between clarity and dissolution — the particular quality of attention that follows relaxation, when forms soften at the edges without disappearing entirely.

A rosebud hovers within the composition — semi-abstract, neither fully depicted nor fully released. Acrylic on A1 paper builds the image in layers that drift rather than settle, the bloom caught mid-air. The title carries both references simultaneously: the blush of the wine, the slow drift of a petal through still air.

Shown as part of the Vibrancy exhibition, 2025.

Contemporary Flower Reading asks what it means to look at flowers not as decoration but as subjects with their own emotional logic — compressed together in an arrangement, forced into proximity, each bloom negotiating its place against the others.

Charcoal establishes the first marks — skeletal, structural — then paint builds around and over them. Charcoal returns again after the paint dries, reiterating, adjusting, the line reinventing itself through each layer. The result is a surface that holds the evidence of every stage of that process.

Breaking into Elements takes deconstruction literally. A layer of primer covers the surface — then a palette knife carves back into it, removing paint rather than adding it, revealing the marks beneath. Each plant dissolves differently: some reduced to a single gesture, others to shadow, others to the bare texture of the paper itself.

Primordial Garden is not about flowers as they are — it is about what they are reaching towards. Plants reinventing themselves, driven by a growth that precedes human interference, straining back towards older, prehistoric forms.

Acrylic establishes the ground. Ink — brushed, sometimes poured — arrives after, finding its own course across the surface. The process mirrors the subject: fluid, unstoppable, indifferent to constraint. Where other works in this series examine how natural forms exist in relation to each other, Primordial Garden is concerned only with the drive to grow — in whichever direction, under whatever circumstances.

Acrylic and ink on canvas / 50 × 50 cm / 2023