Dust gathers whether I notice it or not. In the fibres it keeps a faint record of the work: plaster, sanding grit, loose threads. Clearing it helps, but it returns, it's a reminder that every artwork leaves traces beyond the surface.

At day’s end, a two bucket system clears plaster from tools and resets the studio. The work closes cleanly, traces remain, and the rhythm carries into tomorrow. Washing up becomes part of the process, a quiet task that protects tools, prevents build up, and keeps the next session light.

Starting a new artwork is rarely smooth. A clean panel leans against the wall, waiting for the first marks. The hand hesitates, then moves. Scratches and pressure break the surface, awkward but necessary. Those first marks stay buried under layers of paint and plaster that build the final piece.

A frame does more than contain. It sets proportion, adds protection and gives the work its distance from the wall. When timber, colour and depth align, the frame becomes invisible and the piece can breathe. Making some frames by hand slows the work in a useful way and keeps the decisions close.

The garden table holds notes, sketches, and pauses. Not separate from the studio, it carries its own quiet role in the process.

In the studio, the pace slows as plaster dries more slowly. Each layer asks for patience, for space to breathe and settle. Waiting becomes part of the rhythm, a quiet act of trust between artist and material. Light shifts, surfaces change, and the work evolves in its own time.

A behind-the-scenes reflection on After Mona at its first public showing and how it led to the discovery of a new visual category: conditional imaging.

A reflective piece on how a short trip to Queenstown changed my creative pace and inspired a new artwork by revealing the beauty in small details.

A few days in a classic Kiwi bach slowed everything down. Creaky floors, mismatched chairs, and a lived-in kitchen made the house feel honest and unpretentious. In that ease, I found the same quiet I look for in my work, a reminder that simple, imperfect spaces can hold warmth and calm.

In First Steps, a group show for emerging artists, I exhibited two textured artworks, Tessera and Pieces. Placed together, they revealed a quiet dialogue I hadn’t planned — one shaped by texture, process, and timing. Seeing them in a gallery setting changed how I understood both the work and its beginnings.

Canvas keys are the small wedges tucked into stretcher corners. A gentle tap nudges the frame outward, tightening a slack surface and keeping a painting crisp over time. This post explains when to insert them and how much pressure to use, so your canvas stays taut without stressing the frame.