My work begins in the moment of noticing — a detail, a texture, a pattern in something discarded or overlooked that turns out to be extraordinary.

For fifteen years I shaped space for other people — as an architect and urban designer, designing the places where communities gather, move, and live. I understood space as something structural, purposeful, made to hold human life. Then a cardiac arrest stopped everything.

The body has its own logic. In recovery, yoga and meditation weren't a choice — they were the only way back. Breath by breath, I learned to inhabit stillness rather than resist it. In that inward turning, I found my practice.

The architectural sensibility remains — in the geometry, the tension between structure and organic form. But the materials have changed. I now work with found bark from ancient woodland, large-format canvas, and miniature originals. Objects that have already lived, shed, and survived. Worn as jewellery or held in the hand, they carry the outside world inward.

My work moves in cycles — like breath itself. In and out. Found and made. Structured and felt. Each piece is an attempt to make visible what sustains us: motion, stillness, and the extraordinary fact of being alive.