A Studio Built on Stillness: My Artist Origin Story
This is my artist origin story. Not the polished version, but the honest one. There was no grand plan. No strategic launch. No moodboard. My studio wasn’t born from a vision of success, but from a need to stay alive in my body. To make sense of what I couldn’t say out loud. To hold things that didn’t fit into neat categories of grief, identity, or ambition.
I didn’t start officially as an artist. I started as a runner. A national champion. A little one whose body carried her far and fast, until that speed began to splinter under pressure. Until perfection became a form of protection. Until the doing swallowed the being.
This is the story of how the studio came to be. Not as a space, but as a necessity. And how it became a refuge for stillness, depth, and the kind of emotional presence that cannot be performed.
From Athlete to Artist: The Heart of My Artist Origin Story
Sport taught me how to endure. It taught me how to focus, how to push, how to win. But it didn’t teach me how to stop. Or how to feel. Or how to rest.
The art came after the collapse. After the trophies and titles and external affirmations had lost their meaning. After my body said no more. After I realised that my nervous system was wired for survival, not aliveness.
Painting became a form of refusal. A refusal to keep producing. To keep performing. To keep living in a way that was digestible to others but disorienting to myself.
I didn’t learn art to impress. I needed it to survive.
Early Works and Emotional Truth: Foundations of My Artist Origin Story
I didn’t start with a style. I started with restlessness. With scraps. With paper that could absorb the agitation. I made things without knowing what they were. I didn’t show anyone. I didn’t explain.
Those early works weren’t pretty. They weren’t designed for gallery walls. But they were honest. And in a life where so much had been about projection, that honesty felt like oxygen.
Eventually, I found canvas. I found scale. I found the physicality of large gestures. I found a rhythm that felt more like remembering than learning. And slowly, a body of work began to emerge, not because I wanted to be an artist, but because I needed somewhere to put the truth.
Stillness Isn’t a Mood. It’s a Weapon.
The more I painted, the more I realised what I was actually doing: holding stillness. Not calmness. Not aesthetic minimalism. But the kind of stillness that lets you face what is actually there, underneath the noise.
Stillness is uncomfortable. It strips away distraction. It surfaces what you’ve suppressed. And in that space, you either run, or you stay. My art became the act of staying.
Every piece I make is an invitation to stop performing. To stop curating. To let something true surface, even if it’s raw. Especially if it’s raw.
That’s why the book is called Stillness Is a Weapon. Because it is. Not against others. But against the constant pull to abandon yourself. My studio was built inside that fight. That truth is central to my artist origin story.
A Studio That Holds More Than Paint
People ask me about my materials. The colours. The techniques. But what they’re really responding to is what’s underneath. My studio isn’t a factory for visuals. It’s a space for emotional process. For presence. For holding things most people haven’t found words for yet.
There is grief in this studio. Rage. Joy. Stillness. Forgiveness. Silence. Resistance. Recovery. None of it is labelled, but it’s all there, layered into every piece.
The studio holds what I hold. It doesn’t produce. It witnesses.
Why I Work in Collections, Not Content
I don’t release new pieces every week. I don’t follow content calendars or trends. I work slowly. Quietly. I work in collections because they reflect emotional seasons.
Each collection tells a story. Not in a narrative sense, but in a somatic one. The works emerge when something shifts in me. They mark transitions, thresholds, internal turning points.
Legacy Thread came from a season of emotional repair. Fragments came from a physical and psychic unravelling. Soul on Canvas commissions only open when I have the capacity to hold someone else’s story alongside my own.
Everything is slow. Everything is intentional. Not for scarcity’s sake, but for integrity’s.
Why I Write Alongside the Work
For years I couldn’t talk about what I was making. I mean, I felt it, but struggled to explain it. But language came back, slowly. And when it did, it brought a new kind of clarity.
Writing doesn’t explain the work. It runs alongside it. It offers footholds. Invitations. It helps people understand not what the piece means, but what it’s asking.
That’s why I created Studio Letters (that’s at the moment only open to my book readers to sign up for). Why I wrote a book. Not to justify the work, but to accompany it. To give voice to the emotional territory each piece occupies.
The writing and the painting are not separate. They are two parts of the same conversation. They reflect the same values: presence, honesty, and depth.
The Values Behind Every Piece
I don’t make art to be liked. I make art to hold space.
Every piece I release is shaped by the same values:
Emotional honesty over visual perfection
Presence over performance
Depth over decoration
Truth over trend
Quiet over noise
That’s why my work is not for everyone. And it shouldn’t be. It’s for those who have finished performing. For those who want to live with something that mirrors their complexity, not masks it.
What Clients Say
“We thought we were commissioning a piece of art. We ended up creating a space that feels like a sacred pause.”
— Interior Designer, Devon“It’s not loud, but it changes the entire energy of the room. People always stop and breathe when they walk in.”
— Executive Client, London“It reminds me to be present every time I see it. It’s become part of my daily rhythm.”
— Private Collector, Edinburgh
Final Thought
There are easier ways to sell art. Simpler ways to scale. But I’m not here to mass produce or manufacture meaning.
I’m here to make work that holds.
This studio exists for one reason: to offer a space where emotional depth is not only allowed, but expected. Where stillness is not feared, but used. Where beauty is not decoration, but a form of truth-telling.
If that speaks to you, the book is the place to start. And if you want to stay close, Studio Letters is where I write from the middle of the work. The middle of the stillness.
You can download Stillness Is a Weapon here.
My Offerings
Whether you’re a private collector, a wellness-focused brand, or a designer sourcing for a high-calibre project, I offer art that resonates deeply and subtly.
Collector's Vault
Curated canvas prints created from my original works—each one designed with emotional resonance and sustainable materials. Ideal for those creating meaningful spaces across the UK.
Soul on Canvas
Private commissions created from your story, your chapter, or your emotional intent. Made by hand. Printed once. Made to hold space for years to come.
The Last 10
Ultra-limited hand-embellished canvas works. Quietly released. Made to elevate, ground, or quietly command.
