In the studio

I work in layers, and layers take patience. Each colour is a separate screen, pulled by hand, one pass at a time — the image only exists once the last layer lands, so I spend a lot of the process not quite knowing what I'll get. I've learned to like that. Screen printing doesn't let you control everything, and that's exactly where it becomes interesting: a slight shift in the ink, the grain of the Japanese linen showing through a translucent pass, a print that refuses to be identical to the one before it.

That uncertainty is really the whole point. I'm drawn to the Japanese idea that beauty lives in what is imperfect and impermanent — wabi-sabi — so I don't fight the small irregularities, I keep them. My materials come from that same world: linen and washi from Japan, a vintage obi framing each piece, the kakemono mount. Old things, made by other hands, that I bring into a contemporary image.

I like holding those two things at once — the discipline of a very old craft and a lightness that refuses to take itself too seriously. Tradition, printed by hand, with a bit of play left in.