Not the brash confidence of youth, but something gentler. An inward steadiness, like a stone that’s been smoothed by the river for decades. After nearly forty years of painting, I find myself working with a different kind of energy. Not easier, not automatic, but more assured.
Don't get me wrong, there is still questioning, still exhausting physical labour, still the daily reckoning with the unknown. But, the difference is that I no longer wait for permission.
I trust the work and I trust myself.
For so long, I hesitated. As many do.
We hide our early works, fearful of being misunderstood, fearful of not being seen at all. I was even afraid to speak about my own work. Afraid my ideas were somehow too thin, too fragile, lacking the intellectual armour the art world sometimes demands. But in time, and through writing these newsletters, I began to find my voice.
Writing helped me refine the thoughts behind the work; not to justify it, but to deepen the roots. It helped narrow my message without narrowing the meaning.
What I’ve come to know is this: you must make.
Make work.
Make mistakes.
Make a complete fool of yourself.
It does not matter. What matters is that you continue. That you hold on to the thread even when your hands feel tired.
I have painted through times of financial struggle. Through years when abstract painting in the UK felt like an uphill road. I have faced the shadows of unreliable galleries, empty promises, and the soft silence of being overlooked. Still, I kept painting. I kept making. Kept listening to the unnameable voice of the work, and with age, I found my language.
One evening, browsing YouTube, I came across Reshma Saujani’s Smith College address. Her words echoed something I’d lived for years. “We’ve been trained to be perfect, but we’re not trained to be brave.” She spoke about imposter syndrome, a term I’ve always bristled at. Just calling it a “syndrome” seems to plant doubt where courage should grow. It implies brokenness, a lack, something to be ashamed of. Her message to those young graduates was something far greater than advice; it was permission to simply be.
A quiet, powerful call to women everywhere to step into bravery.
Go listen!
I am an artist. It’s what I do. I can’t imagine doing anything else. This isn’t about confidence. It’s about essence. I am driven by something deeper, something cellular.
Fuck imposter syndrome.
There is no room for it in a life committed to making.
And now, the work speaks for itself. My paintings are held in private collections worldwide, and placed in exclusive, high-end residential and corporate developments. These are considered, curated spaces, guided by top art consultants and designers who value depth, subtlety, and integrity in the work they choose.
To all the curators, art consultants, and collectors who have found space for my work in your lives, thank you. It means more to me than I can say.
To those just beginning, or those in the thick of it, this is all I can offer. Keep going. Let your work change. Let it falter. Let it be foolish and wild. Your voice will find you if you keep making.
And to those who collect, who stand before the canvas not as investors but as seekers, look for work that holds age within it. It too has walked a long way to meet you.