This series began with walking.

Not walking with a destination, or walking for exercise, but the kind of walking that is really just another word for looking. It began, if I'm honest, with a hot summer day and a dog who needed shade.

Anping does not do well in the heat. Neither do I. So on one particularly relentless afternoon, I found myself looking for somewhere cool and sheltered — somewhere the city felt less like a city. A friend mentioned Little Venice. I had been before, but not slowly, not with the intention of simply being there. That afternoon changed that.

We arrived at the water's edge and the temperature dropped immediately. The tree canopy closed overhead, the light softened, and Anping — who had been dragging her paws on the pavement — settled into the shade and exhaled. I did the same.

I would return again and again after that. Not always with a sketchbook. Often just with Anping, finding the same quiet corner, sitting and watching. The water in Little Venice doesn't perform. It doesn't dazzle the way the sea does, or rush the way a river does. It does something quieter and, I think, more interesting — it reflects. The canopy of trees above dissolves into the surface below, so that at certain moments you can't be entirely sure where the real world ends and its mirror begins. Light moves across it in ways that are almost imperceptible until suddenly they aren't. Nothing ever stays still, and yet the whole scene holds itself with a kind of perfect composure.

I kept coming back because I couldn't quite catch it.

It was through this stillness that green began to reveal itself to me — not as a colour, but as a conversation. There is no single green in Little Venice. There is the bright, almost electric green of new leaves in full sun. There is the deep, shadowed green of water beneath a heavy canopy. There is the grey-green of a surface just before the light shifts, and the golden green of the moment just after. They contradict each other and yet somehow agree, the way a well-composed painting does — each element distinct, the whole thing harmonious.

Choosing the right greens for this series was not a technical decision. It was an act of listening. I was looking for colours that could hold that contradiction — the elusive and the grounded, the shimmer and the shadow — without collapsing into each other or pulling apart. Greens that could suggest movement while remaining perfectly still on the canvas.

I began, as I always do, in watercolour. There is something about the way watercolour behaves that suits the early stages of seeing — it is transparent, responsive, almost reluctant to be definitive. Working in watercolour first allowed me to study each scene without committing to it, to let the vision form at its own pace. Some scenes I returned to many times before I understood what the painting was really about.

Only then did I move to canvas.

The paintings in this series are each rooted in a real, observed moment — a specific afternoon, a particular quality of light, a reflection I watched long enough to almost memorise. But they are not records. They are responses. My attempt to hold something that was never meant to be held, and to offer it — calmly, without fuss — to whoever wants to carry a little of that stillness with them.

It started with a hot day and a dog looking for shade. It became something I couldn't stop returning to.

Harmonious. Balanced. Easy on the eye.

Not because the world always is, but because sometimes, if you sit quietly by the water long enough — with a dog asleep beside you — it becomes so.

La Ville Restaurant

from £89.00

La Ville began with a simple observation: water doesn't just reflect, it transforms. Reflections within this painting dissolve the boundary between the solid and the fluid, the observed and the imagined.

The composition is deliberately constructed to pull the viewer in via the narrowing canal into the depth of the scene. So the perspective becomes an invitation, not simply to look at a place, but to step into it and inhabit it.

That openness is intentional.

Each viewer arrives with their own narrative, their own sense of what unfolds beyond the frame. Such specific gives way to the personal, and the painting becomes a shared space between artist and audience.

Print Details

Limited to 50 & Signed

Size

The print is A4 & A3 size with a 2cm white border that bleeds out beyond the paper dimensions, allowing it to fit perfectly in a standard A4 or A3 mounted frame

Paper Type (Printed in London)

Printed on heavyweight Hahnemühle German Etching paper
Warm base tone with a distinctive mottled texture
Rich colours, deep blacks, and exceptional contrast
Textured surface holds ink beautifully for a handcrafted, artisanal feel
Robust and durable with fraying-resistant edges for a clean, professional finish
Comes with a Certificate of Authenticity

‍ Weight (gsm): 310

Finish: Matt

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Waterside

from £89.00

Summer has a colour and it's not one thing. It's blue and green refusing to be separate. In colour psychology, blue and green together create harmony, a natural balance that the eye instinctively relaxes into. Nature figured this out long before we did.

This painting embodies summer. The way the water holds the trees and the trees dissolve back into the water. That specific warmth you only find in July, when everything feels lush and the light lingers longer than it should.

And then there are the boats. An invitation to step in. Climb aboard, untie the rope, go. There is a latent movement here. The geraniums on the bow, the small flag catching air, a sense that this scene is mid-breath rather than frozen. The canal doesn't feel like a photograph. It feels like a place you could inhabit.