The sea and the sky chose me to paint them. During a particularly difficult couple of years, experiencing personal grief and loss, they sang to me. Sometimes whispering gently, other times shouting loudly and ferociously. I couldn't ignore them. I realised that I was constantly looking, photographing and absorbing them, and I looked forward to seeing them everyday.

Now, seascapes in various forms hang throughout my apartment. I’ve always loved the sea. It’s been a place of freedom, contemplation, and fun since I was growing up in South Africa in the 70s and 80s. Those early coastal landscapes were wild and dramatic - a stark contrast to a cruel political regime that took away freedom and rights for many people, and tightly controlled all its citizens. That contrast left a deep imprint: an appreciation for the raw energy of nature, the importance of freedom and belonging and the idea of place as refuge.

I studied graphic design, and later worked as a university lecturer teaching digital media design. After years of working on screens, I needed to return to something tactile and physical — something that let me use my hands, my intuition, and my whole body. I began painting when all my children had left home, and I could return to the creativity that had been my constant companion as a teenager.

I’m interested in how I can distil emotion, atmosphere, and a sense of place through texture, colour, and semi-abstraction. I’m curious about how the outer world mirrors our inner world — how a certain sky, a horizon line, or a shift in the weather can hold a feeling we can’t quite put into words. I’m especially drawn to those transitional, in-between moments — the way a storm dissolves into light, or how late autumn shifts towards winter. These thresholds feel emotionally charged, and I’m often compelled to convey a sense of magic to them through luminous colours, layered surfaces, and the energy of marks and textures.