Psychedelic Intimacy: Adam Baker’s ‘Velvet Hours’ debuts at BEERs Gallery
We sat down with London-based artist Adam Baker ahead of his debut exhibition at BEERS Gallery, Barbican...
September 24, 2025
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
Thanks for taking the time to talk to us ahead of your first London Solo show, Velvet Hours, following on from Passing Through The Soft Storm at Shlomer Haus Gallery, San Francisco, last year. How does this show differ?
Passing Through The Soft Storm was a meditative exploration of travel, rest, and subsequent effects on one’s being. It centred on quiet introspection. It was more observational and outward-looking, reflecting on the relationship between the self and the environment. In contrast, Velvet Hours is more personal and inward-facing. This show draws on the past decade of my life, but it has developed its own fictionalised narrative. Where Soft Storm depicted moments of calm contemplation, Velvet Hours dives deeper into memory, decision-making, and emotional reckoning.
The male figure is a recurrent theme in your work. What are you exploring in your depictions of the male nude?
For me, the male figure is like an avatar, a vehicle to explore the complexities of my own experiences, desires, fears… When I depict the male nude, I think of it in much the same way a choreographer views a dancer; it’s more about movement, form, composition, and the narrative that unfolds through the body. The male figure is a go-to subject for me because it is the body I inhabit, and through it, I can convey emotions and stories that are tied to both my individual identity and larger human experiences.
Are these scenes derived from real memories and/or experiences, or are they pure fantasy?
It’s a bit of both. I start from an autobiographical place, drawing on memories and experiences I’ve had. But then, as I work, the scenes take on a life of their own, becoming more fictionalised, like something out of a storybook. The figures, settings, and narrative start from a familiar place and then transform into scenes that are more symbolic or fantastical.
The elongation of your figures and your almost trippy colour palette create a feeling of hallucination. What is the inspiration for your use of colour?
Yes. I've been organically distorting and stylising the form of my figures, which has led to the elongation of fingers and other distortions of body proportions. When it comes to colour, that’s a whole different challenge. I often push myself to explore new colour combinations, which can be unconventional and unexpected. So, the hallucinatory effect of the palette actually makes a lot of sense in that context!
Many of your works also offer sensuality in the form of various textures. How did you develop your use of mixed media?
Thank you, I love the idea that texture can evoke sensuality. That connection feels very true to the work. My interest in texture was sparked by two experiences in particular. One was a trip to Fondazione Prada a few years ago, where I encountered the work of Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. I was fascinated by the tension between the grainy, almost abrasive textures of his work surface, contrasting against his detailed painting style. The second was a studio visit to my friend Alek Mechlinski, who is brilliant when it comes to surface, process and materiality. He introduced me to marble dust as a medium, and I’ve been experimenting with it ever since. I usually mix it into the gesso when prepping my canvases, which gives the surface a grainy texture. As I paint, the texture helps reveal layers, creating depth and contrast. It adds an unpredictability and almost an obstacle to paint through, causing a kind of controlled chaos on the canvas. It adds a physicality to the work that feels intimate and alive.
Your work is full of vivid contrasts; the use of electric and pastel complementary colours, heightened by the contrasting texture, is alluringly tactile yet slightly unsettling. Was this your intention?
My approach to colour is pretty intuitive. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve pushed myself to experiment outside of my comfort zone, especially with colour choices. In some of the more intimate works, the colour palette is intentional; it’s about setting a mood. But with some of the more chaotic paintings, which reflect hedonistic nights or intense emotions, I use colour to amplify that sense of disorder. The contrast in textures only enhances that feeling, making the experience more tactile and immersive. So yes, the vivid contrasts you mentioned are very much part of the intention; they’re there to evoke specific sensations and moods that speak to the emotional landscape of the work.
How do you search for meaning through intimacy?
If anything holds meaning, it’s how we connect with each other. Yet it can be challenging, and I think that’s something I explore and grapple with through my work. In a way, I’m using my art to unravel and reframe my personal experiences, finding clarity in the act of creating the very thing that feels elusive or complicated.
The figures also have a caricature-ish quality, reminiscent of the queer painter Edward Burra (link to Burra review), who verged on surrealism in many of his later works. Do you see yourself as a figurative surrealist? And has Burra influenced your work?
I’m a big fan of Burra’s work, but funnily enough, I only really rediscovered him after seeing the Tate retrospective, which was near the end of the creative process for this show. So, while he wasn’t a direct influence, I can absolutely see the connection. I think what we do share is a queering of the figure, that sense of camp, exaggeration, and a kind of playful absurdity in the body. In terms of influence, I’ve been more shaped by the German Expressionists over the years. Their use of distortion, emotional intensity, and bold form has really stuck with me. There’s definitely some crossover with Burra in that space too.
As for being a figurative surrealist, I’m not sure I’m yet eligible to claim that title just yet, but I do feel myself drifting toward that space. There’s a strangeness, a dreamlike or uncanny quality that’s emerging more and more in my work. So maybe I’m heading in that direction… watch this space.
Your recent works more frequently depict moments between two figures; are these romantic moments?
Yes, but in a way that’s more about exploration than representation. The paintings allow me to explore the full spectrum of connection, from fleeting to profound. There’s a tension between the desire for deep, lasting intimacy and the pull of impulsive, immediate pleasure. In many ways, these two-figure compositions are me revisiting or rewriting moments of closeness at a time when my own perception of connection is shifting.
Would you say your paintings are about love or desire?
They’re about both, but not in the way you might expect. They're more about the desire to make choices that pull the protagonists toward connections that feel true. It's about the desire to live a fulfilling life, whatever shape that might take. I've tried to keep it open and playful, embracing the full spectrum of what desire and love can mean.
There is a solemn melancholy in the gaze of many of your figures; is this related to the acquiescence suggested in them?
You could say the gaze of some of the figures in my work suggests they are trapped in prisons of their own making. In many ways, we all become prisoners of our choices, the decisions we make and the stories we tell ourselves. Some of these paintings highlight that cycle, the gaze capturing the quiet melancholy. This gives a sense of theatre and a touch of camp, reflecting the tragicomic complexity of the human condition in just a look.
How has the writing of Edmund White influenced you?
The connection to Edmund White’s work was actually pointed out to me by Beers Gallery director Kurt during a studio visit. Edmond White sadly passed away just before we met, and we discussed the poetic correlations between his work and mine. The timing felt poignant. That said, I can’t claim his work directly influenced my own, but of course, anyone as pivotal in queer arts and culture as Edmund White will have an indirect influence. His exploration of queer identity, intimacy, and human vulnerability naturally reverberates through the broader landscape.
The Private View opens this Thursday, 25th, at 6 PM. You mentioned you are still making some final tweaks; how finished are you?
I have three more days until the pickup deadline, and I’m still tweaking several works. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to make changes at this point, but I find it’s often worth taking the risk to keep pushing the limits of the painting. Honestly, if I had to stop now, they’d be fine as they are!
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